The Heart Asks for Pleasure First
by Chi Kyoku
Summary: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.
1. Shut Up, Joker

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: Hello, my lovely readers! I'm guessing most of you have followed me over from my other Shakarian fic, _Commander Shepard, You've Got Mail._ If you're reading this, and you haven't read that one, then it's my duty to warn you that this fic references quite a bit from that story, so you might not understand everything. But don't worry! You can fix that by going and reading _CSYGM _right now. It's Shakarian humour and fluff, just like this one, and I promise you won't be bored.**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One**

Shut Up, Joker

* * *

**December 21st, 2183**

_4:41 p.m._

* * *

Johannes's partner came barreling into their shared office like a Category 5 hurricane or a starship zipping into FTL travel, waving a piece of paper. "I've got it! They approved it!"

Leaning back in his chair, Johannes took a moment to reassess. His partner, Garrus Vakarian, was not only a veteran of the turian military but a war hero as well. Though whispers of his impetuosity and recklessness during his first stint at C-Sec abounded in break rooms and office spaces, service under Alliance brass had worked wonders with Garrus. He was disciplined, like all turians, calm, pointed, incredibly skilled, strategic, and flexible. His interrogations were flawless, his tactical thinking unrivalled, and his sniper skills practically on par with those of a savant.

Right now he looked like a six-year-old with a Christmas present.

"Approved what?" Johannes asked carefully. He couldn't smell any alcohol on his partner, dextro or otherwise, but the events of that fateful night at the bar during the week before had given him lessons in caution. A sober Garrus Vakarian was fairly good at handling insults without violence. An intoxicated Garrus Vakarian tended to knock the offender halfway across the room, break his nose and pull a concealed handgun from under his civvies.

Garrus dangled the paper in front of his face. Johannes grabbed the edges to steady it and read the first couple of lines below the heading. He frowned and looked up at Garrus, who was smiling as only a turian could: mandibles extended to the sides, the better to show off his many sharp carnivorous teeth. "Christmas leave? Garrus, Christmas is a human holiday. Do you even know what it is?"

"Shepard explained," Garrus said blithely, removing the paper from Johannes's face and laying it down across his own desk. His features reassumed their usual composure and he ceased bouncing around so much, something Johannes was quite grateful for; a cheerful, bubbly Garrus was disturbing in the extreme. "It's a human religious holiday. Religious but not religious. Giving and receiving, family and friends."

"Right," said Johannes, who was not sure at all that Garrus really knew what he was talking about. "But how in the world did you get that application for leave approved? I know C-Sec has a non-discrimination policy, but _still._"

Garrus grinned again, without warning. "Spectre authority."

"Oh." Johannes rubbed at the bridge of his nose with one hand. How could he have forgotten? Not only was Garrus a war hero, part of Shepard's elite three-member squad that killed Saren and gave the human ships their vital opening, but he was apparently on close personal terms with the first and only human Spectre. Just how close, and just how personal, Johannes wasn't sure. Break room rumours varied widely on that point.

"I don't know much about Christmas," Garrus admitted, patting the application approval form as if it were a child or a well-loved dog, "so I was hoping you could help. You know, to make up for tricking me into going out with you the other night."

"What?" Johannes could hardly believe his ears. First Garrus had got drunk and sent one of Johannes' few human friends on the Citadel to hospital for making a stupid remark about the commander, and now he was demanding that Johannes make it up to _him_? "Please tell me you're joking."

"I've got to run now," Garrus continued, as if Johannes hadn't spoken, "but I'll be back in time for that inspection tonight. Tomorrow you'll need to show me how to wrap a Christmas present. And where to buy wrapping paper. And what sort of present to buy."

"Garrus—"

Johannes had an entire spiel planned out. He intended to elaborate upon the wonders of the extranet, and explain that entire books on Christmas rituals and etiquette could be downloaded with the tap of a finger; he also intended to emphasize that just because he was Garrus' partner did NOT mean that Garrus should come to him with questions on obscure bits of human culture, at least not quite so frequently; most of all, he intended to ask about that partly eaten sky-blue cake in the break room refrigerator with the letters G-A-R-R scrawled across the top layer in frosting cursive and a candle shaped like a starship stuck between the G and A.

But then Garrus opened up his omni-tool, orange touch-screen interface reflected in his visor, and made a small pleased sound as his blue eyes scanned the screen before he activated the hands-free display and began busily typing away with all six fingers. By now, Johannes knew the signs. His turian partner had just received yet another email from the absent Commander Shepard of the Alliance Marines.

Johannes was no expert on turian facial expressions. But watching the flicker of Garrus's mandibles and the warm light glinting in his ice-coloured eyes made Johannes think suddenly of his own wife, Ariel, and the prolonged years of their own youthful courtship before fumbling romance had blossomed into all-consuming love.

Did Garrus even _know?_

"Okay," Johannes said. Garrus's eyes flicked up from the screen, rested on him briefly, and dismissed him. "Just don't be late to the inspection."

Garrus chuckled. It was a full, deep, rich sound, the kind only turians could produce, flanging and synthetically melodic. It was also the happiest sound Johannes had ever heard a turian make.

Just three weeks of separation. Astounding.

"Don't worry. I'll be right on time."

* * *

**December 25th, 2183**

_3:43 p.m._

* * *

"_Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la."_

"Joker."

"_'Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la."_

"JOKER."

The Normandy's pilot and resident caroler scowled and hit a holographic key with his thumb, shutting off the cheery Christmas jingle. "Oh, come on, Commander. Don't be a scrooge. It's tradition—"

"Once we touch down on the Citadel and I can get the hell off this ship, you can sing all you want. But not. Another. Word. Until. Then."

Joker rolled his eyes and adjusted his cap. "You know, you don't _have_ to stand here. In the cockpit. Behind my chair, where I can't keep an eye on you and the Normandy's controls at the same time. Breathing down my neck…"

"I want to make sure you're doing your job. Not watching pornography. Or singing Christmas carols."

"That was one time. _One time._" Joker shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the sensation of eyes on the back of his neck. He _hated_ it when Shepard stood behind him like that. He couldn't even glance back without getting a crick in his neck, and the last time he'd rigged up the cockpit's security cameras to broadcast live footage of what she was doing into his personal terminal, she'd gotten all hissy at him. It was like she enjoyed making him squirm. Come to think of it, this was the Commander he was talking about. She probably did enjoy it.

"And anyway, it's not like I didn't invite you to watch—"

He saw her hold up a hand in his peripheral vision. "Stop right there." Her voice was pained. "How much longer until we dock?"

"I can't skip these lines, Commander. It's holiday season; the Citadel's got Alliance ships up the yin-yang in here. Everybody's on shore leave. Now, unless you wanted to use your Spectre clearance—"

"Emergency Spectre clearance is to be reserved for emergencies, Joker. Not skipping holiday traffic because my pilot started getting antsy."

"Just my luck. I had to be assigned to the most boring Spectre in the galaxy."

He turned his head just in time to see a smirk curl the edge of her lips. "That's not what you said at Ilos."

"Okay, so _sometimes_ you aren't boring. But only when the galaxy is at stake. Or we're about to get shot down by something big and nasty. Thanks for reminding me."

"You didn't answer my question. How much longer?"

"ETA forty minutes. Which is pretty good, considering we arrived _on Christmas Day._"

She spread her hands in an admission of defeat. Which was a pretty rare sight, all things considering. He should have taken a picture. "I don't control when the brass schedules shore leave. Just be grateful we're getting some at all."

"Oh, I am. Trust me." Joker expertly twiddled the controls, sending the Normandy into a complete 360 barrel roll before falling neatly back into the docking queue. Just another way to stave off the boredom for awhile. Cushioned by the ship's artificial gravity, neither he nor Shepard felt a thing. He was pretty sure Shepard hadn't noticed, since she hadn't started yelling at him yet. "Why so restless, anyway? You're never this worked up about shore leave."

"I'm not worked up." Shepard crossed her arms, daring him to continue. Christ, he hated it when she did that.

"Fine. You know, Commander, you've been extra touchy ever since the aliens jumped ship. I think having them around was good for you. Stabilizing influence and all that."

"Shut up, Joker." Precise and to the point. That was Shepard, through and through.

"Problem, ma'am?" Joker recognized Kaidan's voice without looking around. Over the years of spending basically all his time alone in the cockpit, he had learned to pinpoint the precise moment that someone entered the room behind him, as well as identify them by the sound of their footsteps or their voices. It was extremely difficult for anyone to sneak up on him. Of course, Shepard managed occasionally, but only when he had his earpiece in.

"Joker's being an ass," Shepard explained, her voice perfectly level. "Nothing new."

"Right." Kaidan moved closer. Great, now Joker had _two_ people breathing down his neck. Just another day in the life of the greatest pilot in the Alliance fleet. "Was I dreaming, or did we just do a barrel roll a few minutes ago?"

Oh, shit.

"What are you talking… _Joker._"

"Great going, Alenko," Joker muttered, hunching down in his seat as far as he could go. "Glad to see you're staying on your toes." _Stupid jerk._

He could almost hear Shepard's engines firing up as she prepared to execute a thorough tongue-lashing on the merits of professionalism and setting an example for the other Citadel races. But before she could start, Kaidan laid a hand on her arm. "It's Christmas, Shepard. Why don't we just declare this the one day that Joker is allowed to be an ass, without repercussions, and be done with it."

_I love you, Kaidan._

"Oh, fine." Shepard sighed and headed toward the back of the cockpit. Joker exhaled in relief and rolled his shoulders, easing a little tension in the muscles there. "Radio my cabin when we're clear, Joker. And no more barrel rolls."

"Roger that, Commander."

"I can whip up something in the canteen if you're hungry," Kaidan offered, hovering midway between Joker's seat and the door, eyes on Shepard's back. It was kind of sad, really.

"Sounds great," Joker piped up, since Kaidan clearly hadn't been talking to him. "Meet you there in five?"

"I'm not hungry," Shepard replied, as if Joker hadn't spoken. "I was thinking of getting dinner on the Citadel, anyway. Garrus said he knew of some good restaurants."

"Oh." Wow. If that wasn't a shutdown, Joker had never heard one before. The confusion in Kaidan's voice was palpable. "Well… tell Garrus hi for me."

"I will." Shepard stepped outside, and the cockpit doors slid shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss.

Joker turned his head. Kaidan was still standing behind his chair, face illuminated by the green glow from the door's locking console. "You like Christmas carols, Alenko?"

"What? No, not really." Kaidan shook his head like he was warding away flies and looked at Joker. "What were you doing to piss her off, anyway? I could hear you two all the way from the CIC."

"Just getting into the spirit of the holidays. Not my fault the commander's a scrooge."

"She's been a little restless ever since that formal dinner with the Council a few days ago." Kaidan gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shudder.

"Tell me about it. Kept popping up here to ask me when we were hitting the mass relay to the Citadel. I've never seen her this anxious about shore leave before."

"I wish I knew why." Kaidan sighed and slid into the copilot seat. He didn't touch the controls, just leaned back and rested his head on the back of the chair. Joker knew the lieutenant never let himself relax like this around the rest of the crew; it was only here in the cockpit that he unbent a little.

"Oh, you know why. It's that scaly bastard, Garrus. Him and Shepard were thick as thieves when he was onboard the Normandy. She probably misses him."

"You think that's it?"

"Yeah. Plus she hasn't been in a firefight for almost a week. The peace and quiet have got to be wearing her down. Bet she and Garrus are gonna hit up the firing range as soon as we touch down on the Citadel."

"I guess that makes sense." Kaidan sounded reluctant.

Joker looked at him shrewdly. "You think there's something else going on?"

"I don't know what I think."

"Don't sweat it, Alenko. The commander's a bit strange, I'll admit, but I don't think she's into aliens."

Kaidan's eyes widened. "Jeez, Joker, I did not want that picture in my head."

"I know you were thinking it. But come on. Dr. T'Soni was practically salivating all over her and Shepard acted like she didn't even notice. Who turns down an asari, anyway?"

Kaidan shook his head, grinning a little despite himself. "Obviously not you."

"I'm just saying. I think your position as the commander's pet subordinate is safe."

"I'm not—we're not—God, Joker, you have to make it sound so bad."

"Sorry, sorry." Joker could be mean sometimes, but he didn't really want to give Alenko an aneurysm. Not at the moment, anyway. "Just give her some time."

"Thanks for the effort, Joker, but I really don't need romantic advice from you."

"Ouch." Joker shook his head and checked the docking queue for the twentieth time. Still no movement. The forty minutes he'd given Shepard might have been an underestimate. "Just don't tell the commander that we've been speculating about her love life."

Kaidan smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

**A/N: I hate to start off a new story like this, but I'm going to a Model United Nations conference tomorrow, and won't be back for three days. I might not have computer access while I'm there (don't know yet!) so, if there isn't an update, don't panic. Thanks for your patience!**


	2. Deck the Halls

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: I'm back! And let me just say WOW. 40 reviews, 70 favourites, and 109 alerts, all on the FIRST CHAPTER of this story. I've never had so much support. Thank you all so much and I hope you enjoy the rest of the story :)**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Deck the Halls

* * *

**December 25th, 2183**

_3:54 p.m._

* * *

Garrus's omni-tool blinked. Three words in flashing white type scrolled across the inside of his wrist. _New Message Received._

Yawning, he gave himself a minute to stretch. The holographic display on the opposite side of his office told him that it was almost four o'clock; he was nearly free. His partner, Johannes, had already left to meet his family at the civilian docking center. Always the fastidious one, Johannes had tidied up his side of the office before leaving; paperwork neatly sorted into stacks, chair folded and slotted under the desk, computer systems powered down, holo-pictures on the walls straightened and meticulously dusted. The contrast between his side and Garrus's was painfully noticeable. Garrus wasn't usually disorganized—he was a turian, after all—but in the weeks leading up to his approaching holiday leave, he had let things slide a little. Loose sheets of paper covered the floor around his desk, a half-eaten slice of blue cake on an expensive ceramic plate adorned the top of his private terminal, and a pair of unlocked handcuffs twisted idly, catching the light, from a statuette of an asari matriarch that he had recently liberated from a smuggling ring but hadn't gotten a chance to turn over to Customs and Contraband yet. The ugly grey rug underneath his desk needed to be replaced; it was stained blue from an injury Johannes had helped him patch up last week. He hadn't told Shepard about that one; she had enough on her mind as things stood.

His omni-tool was still blinking. Garrus pushed the button that brought up the interface, dimming the brightness so that the orange glow didn't blind his tired eyes. His spirits picked up when he saw that the message was from Shepard, not another bureaucratic notice or a memo from Chellick telling him that his report was late _again._

_Joker says ETA forty minutes. Meet you at the docking bay? Or are you too swamped in paperwork to leave the office._

Garrus checked the time again. _Can't make it. We'll meet later,_ he sent. He wanted to surprise her.

It took about six minutes for Shepard to respond. The Alliance kept a decent extranet connection rigged up to its fleets, but there was always a delay of a few minutes or so. Add in the fact that Shepard didn't always wear an omni-tool, not being the most tech-savvy Marine in the galaxy, and Garrus was actually impressed at how quickly she usually replied to his messages. _Kaidan says hi._

Garrus smiled. He liked the lieutenant well enough; even if Alenko couldn't swing a rifle like his compatriot, Williams, he was still a skilled biotic and technician. Kaidan had also never treated Garrus with disdain or disgust, unlike some of the other crew members—including Williams initially, though she had warmed to him and the other non-human crew after a few months of fighting side by side. Garrus remembered how distraught Shepard had been after Ashley's death; he had been sorry, too, sorrier than he expected to be about the death of a human soldier who had once treated him so coldly. By the time it was over, he had called her a friend.

_Good to hear from him. Will he be joining us for dinner later?_

Her reply was prompter than usual. She was probably sitting in her cabin in front of the terminal, bored to death. There wasn't much for a ship's captain to do while they were waiting in the docking queue. _I don't think so. He's visiting family._

_Right,_ Garrus typed. _Well, tell him I said hello._

He glanced at the time. Four o'clock—he was finished, free, done for ten whole days. During his time on Shepard's crew, he had forgotten how the work day at C-Sec dragged on. When there weren't bomb threats or hostage scenarios to deal with, the life of a police officer could be incredibly dull.

_So what's first on our schedule?_ Shepard wanted to know.

Garrus stood up, stretching, and pushed his chair under the desk without bothering to fold it. He could come back later and straighten things up. The Normandy had been reassigned to a different docking bay, now that Shepard wasn't on a critical time-sensitive mission anymore; Garrus couldn't just pop next door and meet her there. He had to go all the way across the Citadel and transport traffic could be pretty bad this time of day. He might need those forty minutes.

_I thought we'd drop off your things first. Then if you're hungry, we could go out for dinner. Catch up over drinks._

Chellick was still in his office; Garrus didn't think he _ever_ went on leave, and anyway, Christmas wasn't a turian holiday. Garrus had been forced to jump through dozens of bureaucratic hoops, citing religious freedom multiple times, to successfully file his application for holiday leave. Once he had managed to get his application into the system, it had gone through and been approved shockingly fast. Garrus didn't have any proof, but he was pretty sure he could smell Spectre involvement. Whether Shepard had actually intervened or his involvement with her had stood on its own, he wasn't sure, and didn't particularly care.

"I'm out for the next ten days," Garrus called through the open door.

Chellick looked up. "I hope you cleaned your office."

"Of course," Garrus lied. "See you next week."

His omni-tool blinked; Garrus opened up his message terminal as he headed for the elevator. _Sounds perfect,_ Shepard had replied. _I haven't had a decent drink since I left the Citadel last time._

_Well, we can't have that,_ Garrus typed, stepping into the elevator. He thought suddenly of the incident-that-was-never-to-be-mentioned, and chuckled a little to himself. Shepard was lying through her teeth; that had to be a first, at least that Garrus knew of. _I'll get the bartender to mix up something special for you._

Elevator rides on the Citadel were abominably long; Garrus had never quite figured out why, but he suspected the blame lay somewhere in the bureaucratic chain of Citadel planning and administration. Once the elevator finally arrived at the transit station, Garrus threaded his way through the bustle of commuters—many of them human travellers on Christmas leave—and boarded a sky-car to the docking bays on the other side of the Citadel. He ended up on a VI-driven shuttle with three other passengers: two asari and a male human wearing a brightly colored knit jumper. Breathing in the stale scent of body odor and various perfumes from many different species that haunted public transit, Garrus amused himself by attempting to decipher the strange patterns on the human's jumper while the shuttle glided toward their destination. The human's clothing appeared to sport some kind of large brown animal with tall, branching horns, as well as oddly shaped, jaggedly triangular trees adorned with small, blinking holo-lights. Garrus had never seen anything quite like it before and could not seem to stop staring.

"It's a Christmas sweater," the human said at last, apparently irritated by Garrus's probing stare.

Garrus blinked. "What's that?"

The human raised a furry eyebrow. Despite having dealt with millions of humans by this point in his career, Garrus still did not understand the point of eyebrows. Even Shepard hadn't been able to give him a satisfactory explanation for their existence. "It's _traditional."_ He settled with a huff back into his seat.

Garrus wasn't about to be rebuffed. "What do you mean, traditional? Do all humans require them for their holiday celebrations?"

The human snorted. "Sure, turian. Whatever you say."

Satisfied, Garrus thanked him and leaned back against the synthetic backrest. He had already ordered Shepard a welcome-back gift, but now perhaps he could offer her something with real meaning for humans. Pressing the button that summoned a holograph of the shuttle's navigation VI, Garrus addressed the shimmering blue image. "VI, after you've dropped off the other passengers at the docking bay, reroute to the lower markets in the Wards. Locate a shop selling human Christmas sweaters."

"Understood, Officer," chirped the VI. "Is that all you require?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Have a nice day!" The VI dissolved away into blue bits that quickly faded from sight.

The human and both the asari were staring at him now, but Garrus didn't care. He was too busy imagining the look on his commander's face when he presented her with a gift tailored specifically for humans. It was difficult to impress Shepard, who had seen just about everything in the galaxy at least twice, but perhaps Garrus's knowledge of human customs and tradition would give her pause—and allow him a brief moment of satisfaction.

Today was looking better and better.

* * *

**December 25th, 2183**

_4:21 p.m._

* * *

Shepard hadn't wrapped a Christmas present in ages. The last time had been five years ago, when she had served a stint on the _SSV Paris, _and taken part in a mandatory crew-wide Secret Santa exchange, orchestrated by the ship's resident psychologist (of whose sanity Shepard had never been entirely assured). Her technique had apparently failed to improve with age. By the time she was finished, the package looked as if someone had massacred a wrapping-paper factory, picked up a piece of debris, and attached a silk bow.

Well, it didn't have to be perfect. After all, she was giving it to a turian who had probably never received a Christmas gift in his lifetime.

Knowing that Garrus would probably appreciate utility over frivolity, she had purchased three rare mods for his rifle, each of which were so powerful that they could not be used in conjunction without serious risk. Her Spectre discount had cut the price in half; it would most likely have taken Garrus years to save up enough to buy them on his own. Rather than making her feel guilty, the exorbitant spending had actually felt good; after the highly lucrative hunt for Saren, Shepard had been left swimming in so many credits that she didn't actually know what to do with them all. As a Spectre, she was no longer required to turn over contraband to the Alliance, so she had sold it to trusted, legitimate dealers instead. At the time, she'd had no idea that the weapons and armour she confiscated from dozens of merc bases and enemy hideouts could be worth so much. To think she and Garrus had used the suits of armour for target practice!

After she'd made the purchases, however, it had felt like there was something missing. Just giving Garrus rifle mods for a Christmas gift felt a touch impersonal. She had acquired presents with a unique touch for all of the other important figures in her life—a case of incredibly rare brandy for Anderson, ancient first-edition texts from multiple races for Liara, and a spot on the VIP list of several exclusive weapons dealers for Wrex, just to name a few—and she thought Garrus deserved the same treatment. He was her best friend, after all.

Running into a turian antiques dealer refueling his ship at the same station as the _Normandy_ had been a stroke of luck. Since the dealer was between ports, Shepard had been able to negotiate a slightly lower price for the item she had eventually chosen. She didn't quite understand the significance of the gift in turian culture, but the antiques dealer had assured her that it would come across as an extremely thoughtful gesture for a close friend. Shepard had decided to trust him; the stones _were_ quite pretty, and she was out of other ideas.

Now that everything was wrapped, she had some time to relax before the Normandy docked. Humming to herself—dammit, Joker's Christmas carols had embedded themselves into her brain and now they _wouldn't go away_—Shepard checked her terminal. Garrus had sent a message.

_Well, we can't have that_. _I'll get the bartender to mix up something special for you._

_Nothing too special, please,_ Shepard typed, before deleting the draft. She was not even going to hint at the events of several nights before, and the multiple embarrassing messages she had sent—hopefully Garrus would forget about it. _You spoil me. Catch you later?_ she eventually sent.

Garrus's reply was prompt. _In the middle of some very important reconnaissance. I'll message you when I have a time and place._

Shepard took a moment to wonder what sort of reconnaissance he could possibly be involved in on Christmas Day—the smuggling of Christmas trees by black market holiday specialists, perhaps? She was slightly disappointed that he wouldn't be able to meet her at the docking bay, but she knew that it was childish. _Patience is a virtue,_ she chided herself. Of course, since she had thus far made a career out of getting things done on a severe time crunch, the advice rang a little hollow. After a year of life happening at lightning speed, Shepard wasn't quite ready to slow down.

_I'll be waiting,_ she messaged back, then turned off her terminal, because Garrus was obviously busy and she didn't want to disturb his work.

Joker's estimate of forty minutes proved to be a severe understatement. Traffic on the Citadel was even more backed up than usual, and Shepard found herself with about another hour of nothing to do. Restless from her uncharacteristically long night of sleep, she roamed the ship for a while until she ended up in the cargo bay. The crew, who were accustomed to Shepard's habitual wandering, barely took notice of her beyond a nod and a salute. Inspecting the row of firearms laid out on the table in the corner, Shepard felt a brief pang in her chest at the sight of a few miniscule specks of dust on the barrels. After Ashley's death, she had assigned a rotation of junior officers to fulfill the gunnery chief's role of cleaning firearms until Shepard could find a replacement, but they just didn't devote the same care and attention that Ashley had.

Hoping to assuage the ache in her heart, Shepard picked up a polishing rag and got to work on the guns. As she methodically picked over each weapon for bits of dust that could possibly affect targeting or other systems, her eyes fell on the lockers adjacent to the table. All of them were completely cleaned out, apart from Kaidan's and Ashley's—Kaidan's because he was still onboard the ship, and Ashley's because Shepard hadn't ordered anyone to clean it out yet. It would have to be done eventually; there was no room for sentiment onboard an Alliance frigate, and a deceased soldier's weapons locker couldn't be left untouched indefinitely.

She would wait until Garrus was back onboard. It was something Shepard knew she had to do herself, but she didn't want to do it alone. Having Kaidan with her would just make it more difficult for her to maintain her composure. Garrus, though… Garrus would keep her in line, and he wouldn't stare with wide brown eyes if his commanding officer showed a little softheartedness.

"_Commander,"_ crackled Joker's voice over the ship-wide comm. "_We're clear and ready to dock. Awaiting confirmation."_

"Confirmed. Proceed," Shepard said, still bent over a particularly stubborn speck of gunk on the butt of a sniper rifle. Snatching up the bottle of gun polish with one hand, she gave the speck a thorough spritzing—but it refused to budge. "Just a minute, let me nuke this thing."

_"Should I be worried, Commander?"_

"Don't worry. I'm a responsible adult."


	3. Gun Towers and Cattle Barns

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: Updates for this story will probably commence on an every-two-days basis, since these chapters take a lot longer to write than CSYGM chapters (not that I'm complaining!) Thanks again for all of the support.**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Gun Towers and Cattle Barns

* * *

**December 25th, 2183**

_5:13 p.m._

* * *

She was the last one out the airlock; well, last except for Joker, who spent at least five minutes caressing the Normandy's main controls before Shepard could coax him from the cockpit. "I haven't been away from my baby in months," he complained as they headed for the airlock, Shepard carefully measuring her steps to accommodate Joker's slower pace. "Now I'm leaving her for six whole hours to do my Christmas shopping. What if she gets lonely? What if I get lonely?"

"You can visit," Shepard said, giving him a little nudge in the shoulder, too light to cause any damage. "Now get a move on. This is the first week of shore leave I've had in ages, and I intend to make the most of it. That includes getting a hot meal as soon as I possibly can."

"Mmm, shore food." Joker had apparently forgotten his reluctance to leave the ship; his steps quickened as the airlock doors sealed behind them. "Mom makes a fantastic Christmas dinner. I would invite you over to Tiptree to see for yourself, but I don't think Mom would be too thrilled about cooking for a biotic and a turian. Too much work, even for her."

"What makes you think I would bring Garrus?" Shepard asked, choosing to ignore the biotic slight. It was true that she ate a _lot_, but it wasn't like she had any choice. "Turians don't even celebrate Christmas."

Joker waggled his eyebrows at her. She didn't even think that was possible, but he did. "Right, like you two aren't going to be joined at the hip—up until the minute the Normandy takes off in a week. I'm not stupid, Commander. I know how this works. The second you two see each other, it's all, 'Garrus!' 'Commander!' 'It's so great to see you!' 'I know, now let's go snipe some bad guys and get ourselves nearly killed at the last minute and force Joker to swoop in and save us!' 'Sounds good to me!'"

"I don't sound like that," Shepard said, affronted. They came out on the dock and the sparkling vista of the Citadel unfolded before them, a tapestry of moving lights and stars. The Normandy's other crew were filing into the elevators, some to visit family in the Wards, others to catch shuttles to their home colonies. At the opposite end of the dock, Shepard caught sight of Kaidan, shaking hands with a burly engineer who held a suitcase bigger than Shepard's torso. The engineer departed and Kaidan turned around, eyes catching on Shepard; he raised his hand and started toward her, and that's when Shepard saw Garrus over his shoulder.

The turian was standing next to the elevator, dressed in C-Sec blue and black, rifle slung casually across his arms as though he were standing guard; but even from here Shepard could see Garrus' keen eyes scanning the crowd. He nodded to nearby crew members, murmured greetings to familiar faces—then he met Shepard's eyes and a turian smile cut across his face.

"See you, Joker," Shepard said, clasping her pilot's arm in farewell. She knew Joker didn't like hugs or protracted good-byes, so she bothered with neither. "Merry Christmas."

Garrus had already crossed half of the intervening space by the time she reached him. They met square in the middle, like something from a bad Earth movie, and stopped a few awkward steps apart. It struck Shepard that she had never been reunited with him before; the only time she could remember meeting him like this was the very first time, when he had introduced himself and she had noted his strikingly blue face paint. She didn't really know how this was supposed to go. "Hi," she said.

He nodded, no longer smiling. "Commander," he said in that level, respectful tone of his, and she couldn't stand it anymore. If he saluted her she might really punch him.

"Oh, come here." The three intervening steps were eaten away in a flash and Shepard pushed his gun to one side before stepping into his arms. It was that—the little motion, nudging the gun away so she had room to slip her arms around his narrow waist—that made it suddenly seem like the most natural thing in the world. He laughed, a resonant chuckle that tickled at the point of contact between them, and rested his chin on the crown of her head, smelling of ink and freshly polished armour. She had never embraced him before, but it didn't seem as alien as she had expected.

"Wow. Three weeks is a long time."

She grinned against his armoured chest—boy, was that uncomfortable to press her face against, but she wasn't complaining—and stayed where she was. "Separation anxiety?"

"Just a little." His arms came off her shoulders and he stepped backward, opening up a few inches of space between them. Shepard looked him up and down, noting the changes as well as the lack of change. He looked mostly the same, maybe a little better rested than when she'd left, and suddenly it felt like she had just seen him yesterday. "None the worse for that cold, then?"

"A few broken glasses, and I accidentally threw a book at Kaidan's head, but no lasting damage."

"I'm right here, you know." Kaidan appeared beside her, brushing her elbow lightly with his hand, and offered the same hand to Garrus. "Nice to see you, Vakarian. It's been a while."

"Likewise." Garrus shook Kaidan's hand. It was a perfectly friendly gesture, but the difference between that and the greeting she had just exchanged with Garrus made Shepard want to laugh. "You've been keeping an eye on the commander for me?"

"Hey," Shepard said in mock offence.

"I've been watching her six, yeah."

"Her six is not the only thing he's been watching," Joker stage-whispered, sidling past before Shepard could catch him.

"Uh," said Kaidan, a flush coloring his cheeks. "I'd better go and catch that shuttle. See you next week?" He turned, caught Shepard in a hug, and before she could react placed a delicate kiss on the corner of her jaw—as if she were made of glass and about to break. She felt a faintly uncomfortable surge of energy as their biotic fields collided, like a static jolt. Then he let go, nodded to Garrus, and walked away.

"Right." Garrus rubbed his arm, wincing. "Even I felt that."

"Sorry. Biotics just make life difficult in general." Shepard flexed her arms, willing her biotic field back into order, and smiled up at him. Damn, had he got taller, or had she forgotten what it was like to have a turian towering over her all the time? "I didn't know you were going to meet me here. I thought you were working today."

"Surprise!" Garrus spread his arms and she resisted the urge to dive back into them. Usually she wasn't quite this keen on cuddling her subordinates to death, but having Garrus next to her again made her feel like she could take on the entire Terminus Systems singlehandedly. "I applied for Christmas leave."

"Christmas leave?" She frowned, skeptical. "How did you manage that?"

"I may have dropped your name," he said modestly. "Hey, are you hungry? Let's drop off your things at the flat and get something to eat in the market."

Shepard grinned, unable to contain her almost debilitating euphoria. It didn't seem right for her to be _this_ pleased about seeing Garrus again, even if he was her sniper and right-hand man and best friend and... oh, to hell with it all, she was giddy with endorphins and she hadn't smiled this much in weeks.

"Sounds good to me."

* * *

**December 25th, 2183**

_5:48 p.m._

* * *

Falling back into a familiar rhythm was so easy Garrus almost didn't notice it happening. It was different, of course; there were no bullets whizzing over their heads, no geth hammering past their shields, no exploding buildings. The shuttle ride from the docking bay felt smooth as butter in comparison to those wild midnight jaunts on the surface of an unfamiliar planet with Shepard at the Mako's wheel. Yet, in some ways, it was the same. They were the only two occupants in the shuttle, yet they sat so close together they were almost touching—an easy, familiar arrangement perfected over many months onboard a crowded starship. Neither he nor Shepard were the type to chatter endlessly, so for the most part they sat in comfortable silence, watching the cityscape slide by outside the shuttle doors. Occasionally her hand crept over to play with the latch on his gauntlet, flipping it open and closed with those deft white fingers that he never tired of watching.

"Look!" she said suddenly, vaulting away from him and toward the shuttle doors. For a split second he thought she was going to jump out, but she just pressed her face against the glass. "Holographic fireworks."

"Red and green," Garrus noted, watching the light display reflect against her hair. "Are those significant colours?"

"Christmas colours, yeah. Gosh, this is just like at home. Except we lit real fireworks on Mindoir, not holographs. Not as many zone restrictions in the colonies." She stayed there for awhile, squashing her face against the glass as she stared outside. It amused Garrus to see her acting like Shepard, instead of the commander. Of the two different personas she frequently switched between, he was glad she had chosen this one for the moment.

"Strange that humans would celebrate a religious, family-oriented holiday with the ignition of coloured rockets and gunpowder."

She frowned at him, tugging distractedly at her collar, and he realised she was wearing one of the Alliance service uniforms, black crewneck sweater with the collar on the outside to display her rank. He wasn't used to seeing her out of armour outside the ship; it made him feel faintly nervous and even more protective than usual. A turian of Shepard's rank would never go anywhere without a good suit of armour, just in case. "Fireworks aren't dangerous. I haven't lit any in years, but still..."

"You have arrived at your destination," announced the shuttle's navigation VI. "Landing in progress."

"Right. This is the place." The shuttle doors lifted away and Garrus stepped out. He heard a curse behind him and turned in time to see Shepard grab onto the side of the shuttle to right herself.

"Sorry. Tripped." She reached out, placed a hand on his shoulder for balance, and hopped to the ground, just as they had done many times when disembarking from the Mako. Strange how battlefield habits could translate so simply into civilian life. "So this is where you live?"

Garrus nodded. He let her look for a minute; Citadel skyscrapers were pretty impressive, even for someone who'd done as much travelling as she had. His apartment building, the Minoreyan Tower, was one of the tallest, capping out at just below maximum height regulations. The tower's many windows gleamed black and silver in the pulsing lights of the Wards, and Garrus could see the tiny figures of other residents lounging on balconies far above. The architecture sported a clear asari influence, with more curves than lines and an almost fragile look to the whole structure, accentuated by the vaguely concave windows and slender balustrades.

"Just wait until you see the view from my flat. It's a long elevator ride, though. Sorry about that."

"Great. The one thing I missed about the Citadel was the century-long elevator rides." Shepard picked up her bag, and Garrus had to smile. Once a soldier, always a soldier; Shepard had packed light. No doubt the bag contained her armour, weapons, a bar of all-purpose soap, and nothing else. "I've never actually lived in a building like this. Just farms, barracks, and starships."

Garrus laughed as they stepped inside the lobby. Like most luxurious residences on the Citadel, the apartment building featured a spacious, aesthetically pleasing lobby with attractive color-changing wallpaper and relaxing music piping from speakers hidden in the walls. "I know all about the last two. What are farms like?"

"Big and smelly. Chores all the time, hardly a spare minute to yourself, especially during the harvest. It's weird, sometimes. A mixture of new tech and old tech. Omni-tools next to threshers. Gun towers and cattle barns." Shepard followed him to the front desk, posture straight and steps clipped and brisk. "Sometimes I miss it."

There was a button on the desk; Garrus pressed it. After a few moments, an asari with dark blue, almost navy skin and a face ornately tattooed in white bustled out from the door behind the desk, speaking busily into an earpiece. "Right. Yes. Ten percent discount for active military personnel, with appropriate identification. Fifteen percent for Citadel Security. No, sir, I can't do that. Company rules. I'm sorry, sir. Units are for rent only to Citadel residents with the appropriate immigration status. We do service quarians, sir, as per the non-discriminatory housing laws of the Citadel, but only legal residents. Goodbye, sir."

"Afternoon, Aya," Garrus said as the asari unclipped her earpiece and laid it on the table. Despite the gesture, she still looked profoundly distracted.

"Garrus. Problem? Please tell me there isn't a problem and you're just stopping by to say hello. I'm terribly busy."

"This is the friend that I was telling you about." Garrus gestured toward Shepard. "Shepard, meet Aya, my landlady. Aya, this is Commander Shepard, Council Spectre."

"Nice to meet you," Aya said with a harried smile, looking utterly unimpressed by Shepard's credentials. "Now, Garrus, unless you need something—"

"It's that unit," Garrus said a little more loudly. "You know, the one I asked you to reserve. Can I have the keycard?"

"Unit? What unit? Oh, _that_ unit. Sorry, Garrus. No can do."

Garrus blinked and tightened his hands on the edge of the desk. "Aya, I reserved that unit a week ago. What do you mean, _no can do_?"

"Just had an offer. Fourteen thousand credits a month. Asari Matriarch and her bond-mate. I really am sorry, Garrus, but I couldn't turn it down. Not even for a Spectre."

"Fourteen thousand credits," Garrus muttered, turning away from the desk. "I don't even make that much in a month."

"I guess I'll find a hotel," Shepard said doubtfully, as the dark-skinned asari snatched up her earpiece and disappeared into the room behind the desk. "Maybe one of those motels in the Wards. Those run pretty cheap."

"And you'll have to shoot twenty muggers a night to get some peace and quiet." Garrus shook his head, angrier with Aya than he knew he should be. He and Aya weren't exactly _close_, but they were on good terms, and he wouldn't have expected her to just leave him in the dust like that. Perhaps she'd been afraid of offending the Matriarch. Matriarchs were accustomed to getting everything they wanted and didn't take slights lightly. "Let's take your things up to my flat until we can get this figured out. You can stay there tonight."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Shepard followed him into the elevator.

Four minutes later, Garrus thought he recognized the warning signs. Tapping feet, twitching fingers, putting down her bag and picking it up again—Shepard was getting impatient. "What floor do you live on, anyway?" she asked in carefully controlled tones.

"The eighty-second," Garrus said apologetically.

"And you ride this thing _every day?"_

"I've fallen asleep in here twice," he admitted.

His was flat number 327, two hundred and fifty galactic standard meters above ground level. The view from his den window was stunning, but in the excitement of reuniting with Shepard, Garrus had forgotten how _small_ his apartment was. After swiping his keycard and submitting his retinas for scanning, Garrus stepped over the threshold first, took in the state of the place, and turned to apologize to Shepard in advance—but she was already inside.

"Sorry," Garrus said quickly, bending down to pick up an abandoned pair of greaves lying on the floor in the entryway. He set them on the stand next to the door, which was already overflowing with random items that had been placed there for the exact same reason—to keep from tripping over them. "I know it's messy, and small—"

"Garrus, I've been living in a cabin on a starship for the past year. Before that, I was bunking with the crew in the communal sleeper pods. I'm not going to complain about size." Shepard looked amused by his panic. "And all you need to do about the mess is buy a decent cleaning mech. I should have gotten you one for Christmas."

"Oh, that reminds me. I have something for you. Put your things down somewhere while I get it."

He fled for the bedroom. _My commanding officer is in my apartment. I have no precedent for this._ Turian soldiers were generally well taken care of by the government on Palaven, so most of them owned private residences, however small, outside their military accommodations; it was a safe haven for them to return to when off-duty, where the strict formation of army life could not intrude until it was time to don the uniform again. It was generally taboo in turian culture for a ranking officer to visit the private home of one of his subordinates. Not that Garrus minded Shepard's presence; it was just… strange. Unfamiliar. He didn't take the same care at home as he did while serving, and to have Shepard walk into his home in such a state of untidiness was embarrassing.

"Got anything to drink?" Shepard called. It sounded like she had found the tiny kitchen. "I'm dying of thirst."

"Water's all I have that's safe. Sorry."

"It's fine."

Garrus heard the sound of running water; it sounded like Shepard was pouring herself a drink. He finally located the package he was looking for—under the bed, of course—and paused on the way out his bedroom door, taking a deep breath.

_Hop to it, Vakarian. You can do this._

"Shepard?"


	4. The Best CO Ever

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: Warning. Sap ahead. Lots and lots of sap. If that's not your thing... well... why are you still here?**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

The Best C.O. Ever

* * *

**December 25th, 2183**

_6:07 p.m._

* * *

"Shepard?"

She was examining a very realistic holo-painting on his wall when she heard his voice from the doorway. The subject of the painting was the _Normandy_, complete down to the miniscule detailing on the hull and wings, with an indecipherable name signed in the bottom corner. Poised against a backdrop of black galaxy spattered with iridescent stars, the ship cut boldly through the center of the painting, its outline faintly blurred with the speed of its passage—imposing, deadly, and beautiful. Shepard had never seen such a stirring likeness. She wondered when the painting had been done, and whether Garrus had commissioned it himself.

_There are at least three people who are in love with that ship,_ she realized suddenly. _Joker, myself, and… Garrus._ She never would have guessed.

The flat, though small, was well furnished and possessed a sense of having been lived in that made the whole place feel alive. Shepard could see Garrus's touch in every corner, from the faint scratch marks against the edge of the kitchen sink to the unloaded handgun lying idly in the middle of the table, like a bizarre centerpiece. The scent of gun polish hung faintly over everything, but it comforted Shepard rather than putting her off. It made her feel at home, even though she had never been here before.

The cups were all shaped rather strangely, with narrow, almost spout-like tops designed for turian mouths, but Shepard had managed to drink her water without spilling any. Now she placed the empty cup in the sink and turned to see Garrus stepping through the doorway. He was holding a package in one clawed hand and looked oddly hesitant.

"Here." He held it out to her.

"You got me a present?" She honestly had not expected anything. Garrus was a turian; while she had told him that Christmas generally involved exchanging gifts, she didn't expect him to remember or feel obligated in any way. "That's… wow."

"I don't have a tree." He sounded almost as embarrassed as he had when apologizing for the state of his flat. "Johannes said that you were supposed to put the presents under a tree, but I didn't have time to find one."

"It's completely fine," she hastened to assure him. "You… wrapped this really well." How in the _world_ had he managed that? Shepard glanced at his three unwieldy talons, then at the masterfully wrapped gift with its careful creases and unwrinkled paper, and felt extremely inferior.

"Johannes helped." Ah. That made sense.

Shepard opened the package carefully, trying to resist tearing the paper. She didn't know if Garrus was familiar with that particular custom and wanted to avoid looking like she didn't care about his gift. Stripping all the scarlet paper off revealed two items: a small, oblong box and a flexible package wrapped in brown paper that looked and felt like some kind of clothing.

"Which one should I open first?"

"It doesn't matter." His eyes were fixed on her with such intensity that she almost asked if he was all right.

She opened the brown paper package first. The paper fell away and something brightly colored and made of knit wool fell out in folds across her hand. For a moment she blinked, unable to believe her eyes. "It's… it's a _Christmas sweater."_

"Do you like it?" Shepard had never seen Garrus act quite like this before. He was always so collected, sarcastic even—but it made sense. This was a custom he had absolutely no experience in, and he obviously wanted to please her. The thought made _her_ feel nervous. One wrong move, and she could tarnish his feelings toward this particular human holiday forever. But she had to be honest, too.

"It's absolutely hideous," she said truthfully. Then, in the split second it took for his translator to process her speech, she quickly added with equal veracity, "And I love it. The whole point of Christmas sweaters is to be horrendously tacky."

Bewildered didn't even come close to describing the expression on Garrus's face. She almost felt sorry for him. Scratch that, she _did_ feel sorry for him. "I… Humans… Shepard, this is beyond me. I give up. I don't think I will _ever_ understand your species."

It really was the ugliest sweater she had ever seen. There were actual flashing holiday lights on the front, with moose scampering across a red, green and yellow landscape and a sleigh pulled by bug-eyed reindeer and candy canes arranged into the shapes of hearts and a jolly-looking Santa Claus with the words _I celebrated Christmas on the Citadel and all I got was this ugly sweater_ printed in disgustingly swirly cursive above his head. Casey, the fashion-sensitive git, wouldn't have gone within ten feet of it. But Shepard was smiling harder than she had in weeks, and she put the other box on the table and pulled the sweater over her head. Garrus looked momentarily dazzled by the lights and colors, but quickly recovered and beamed, obviously pleased by her response.

"Humans. Logic. We've been over this," she said.

"We have," he confirmed, still staring at the sweater. "Uh, the other box?"

Shepard picked up the box she had laid on the table. The outside was dark blue satin, almost like a jewelry case—but Garrus knew she didn't wear jewelry, didn't he? That was lesson number one in boot camp. She swallowed, trying to map out how she would respond to it if it _was_ jewelry, and opened it cautiously.

The glint of metal caught her eye. "Dog tags?" she blurted out. "But I already have dog tags."

"Look closer," he said quietly, snagging the chain on the tip of one talon and allowing the tags to dangle before her.

The three-line inscription was the same as her other tags, albeit in slightly more graceful script. _Shepard, Artemis. Systems Alliance Commander, N7. SSV Normandy._ There was only one difference in the tags themselves; the reverse side of each read _Council Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. _Shepard's old tags had never been updated after her induction. The tiny sealed capsule containing traces of her DNA, enough to identify her if the tags were rendered unreadable, was there as well, alongside the tags. Then Shepard spotted the difference: a thin vein of violet metal that ran along the twisting length of the chain from which the tags dangled, suffused with a barely noticeable glow. It was subtle, beautiful, and completely unfamiliar.

"It's element zero," Garrus said in response to her questioning look. "It's been treated, so exposure won't hurt you, but your biotics will be slightly stronger as long as you wear it."

"Oh. _Oh._" She couldn't even imagine how much it must have cost. "Garrus, I… It's incredible, but… you really, really shouldn't have."

He raised a hand, looking amused by her panic. The tables had been turned, it seemed. "You cut me twenty percent of the profits from our mission against Saren, remember? I still have a ton of credits sitting in my bank account. And if you're really worried, it wasn't even that expensive."

"Not that expensive? Garrus, this is _element zero._ Corporations commit coldblooded murder for this stuff."

"My father owns stock in an eezo mining company back in the home system. I pulled some strings and convinced them to let me have the scrapings from their latest batch for a killer price. Then I sent them to a scientist who owed me a favour."

He was obviously trying to reassure her, but all Shepard could think of now was the effort he had gone to. She was suddenly ridiculously glad that she had spent so much on his gifts. She would feel hopelessly inadequate otherwise.

"Do you mind if I…?" He held up the chain, making his intentions clear.

"Not at all." Shepard reached down the collar of the sweater and pulled her old dog tags up over her head. The gesture felt indescribably strange. She hadn't taken off the tags since she'd received them upon her promotion to commander three years ago, not once—she showered, slept and made love wearing them. But the sensation of unfamiliarity was immediately quelled when Garrus slipped the new tags over her head. The cold metal eased over her ears to rest against her neck and collarbones, and she felt the hum of the element zero immediately. It wasn't really a hum in the audible sense, more like an instant, perpetuating connection between her body and the eezo strand, an exchange of data and immediate synthesis. It felt fantastic, like a lesser version of a red sand high—without the aftereffects.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said honestly.

Garrus laughed. "A 'thank you' would do nicely, I think."

The smile surged back to her face. She slid her arms around his waist before he could move and hugged him again. "Thank you, Garrus Vakarian. You are the best right-hand man I could have ever asked for."

He smiled, too, then frowned suddenly. "Damn. Now I have to think of something even better for next year."

"Oh, that reminds me. I've got something for you, too." She slipped away from him and retrieved her bag, setting it down on the kitchen table and unzipping the top. She had put Garrus's gifts in her helmet so they couldn't shift around in the bag. They were separately wrapped; one in silver and one in blue, both with black bows. A chuckle from Garrus told her that he had caught the reference. "I can't remember which is which," she admitted, handing both of them over.

"Blue is my lucky color." Garrus put the silver package down and neatly sliced the blue package open at each end with one sharp talon.

"That's handy."

"This is… oh, Commander, you've got to be joking." He'd opened the rifle mods. Shepard laughed out loud at his expression: mandibles spread wide in shock, eyes blinking rapidly. He opened the box almost greedily, pawing through the contents with a sound of absolute delight. "Shepard, two of these are illegal in Council space, and one of them I've never even _heard_ of!"

"Just don't use them together," Shepard advised him. "The dealer said that possible risks included explosions, dead babies and instant death."

Garrus snorted. "Don't worry, Shepard. I wouldn't have lived this long if I was stupid enough to do that." He placed the still-open box on the table, though his eyes kept straying toward it every few moments. "Thank the Spirits I'm a police officer. As it is, I should probably arrest myself for even owning these."

"If it were anyone else, I never would have bought them. But I know you'll put them to good use." Shepard looked directly into his eyes. "I trust you."

"I know," he said, his subharmonics softer than she had ever heard before.

Shepard swallowed, realizing that the moment had suddenly grown heavier than she knew how to deal with. "Right. You still have another box to open."

"I almost forgot." He picked up the silver package and slit the wrapping paper in the same way. The box that appeared this time was plain, with no identifying logos or labels, and sealed with an electronic lock.

"It's voice-activated." Shepard leaned closer and spoke. "Identify new user."

"Voice recognized," said the tiny lock in a tinny voice. "Which new user would you like to identify, Commander Shepard?"

"Officer Vakarian."

"Please submit a voice sample."

Shepard looked meaningfully at Garrus, who nodded and leaned forward. "Shepard is the best C.O. ever."

"Voice sample confirmed. Turian. Male. Adult. New user saved. Please state passcode to open, Officer Vakarian."

"It's _'deck the halls,'_" whispered Shepard.

Garrus glanced at her, confused, but she just smiled.

"Deck the halls."

The box's lid slid open. Shepard, who was listening closely, didn't fail to catch Garrus's tiny intake of breath when he saw what lay inside. Without speaking, he delicately picked up one of the crystalline orbs; it fit perfectly into the palm of his hand, smooth and seemingly untouched by machinery. The orb glowed bright silver as soon as it touched his skin, then abruptly faded back to its former cloudy white.

"I didn't know it did that," Shepard said, openmouthed. "I actually hardly even know what these are. I was hoping you could explain."

"They're voice stones," Garrus said in a subdued tone. "Turians discovered a cache of them on one of our moons a long time ago—about a hundred, the only ones found in the galaxy so far. We think they're Prothean technology."

"I had no idea. I thought they were just antiques." Shepard picked up the other stone, the one Garrus had left in the box. Like the other one, it glowed silver as soon as she touched it before quickly fading again. "What do they do?"

"Neither of these were ever handled with bare hands before we touched them just now." Oddly enough, as soon as Garrus began speaking, the stone in Shepard's hand glowed green. "They're a matched pair, and now they're coded to the two of us. When I speak, the stone picks up the emotion in my voice and _your_ stone turns a certain color. The colors are different for every person."

"Is it like quantum entanglement?" Garrus's stone barely changed, lazily shifting from pearly white to pale pink before shifting back again.

"Nobody knows. Tests have been performed, but not many. The stones are too few and too valuable to be dissected." Garrus smiled. "My parents have a pair." Shepard's stone turned light blue at that.

"Is it… the dealer said it was for close friends."

"They are. Whether those close friends happen to be bonded is irrelevant, don't you think?"

"So they work across any distance? Anywhere?"

"Yes. It is like quantum entanglement, though I don't know if that's how it really works."

"And you can't… change them? Reprogram them, I mean, to respond to a different person?"

"No. It's irreversible."

"Oh." Shepard placed the stone gingerly back into the box. "I'm sorry, then. I shouldn't have picked it up—I should have let you save it for who you wanted. Your bond mate or someone. They're yours, after all."

"Shepard, I would have given it to you anyway."

"Oh," she said again. The air in the room felt too heavy to breathe, suddenly. She had to lighten it somehow. "So… now we have to get married? Damn, now I have to buy a dress."

It worked, which was a massive relief. Garrus laughed out loud, shoulders relaxing, and the stone in the box flashed a vibrant orange. "Don't worry. You can get married in that sweater. I don't mind."

"No thanks. I don't need people thinking I'm even more insane than I actually am. Plus, what would your father say?"

"I think he would have a heart attack regardless of what you were wearing."

"Darn. Murdering your in-laws is not the way to start off a happy marriage."

"Okay, okay." Garrus held up his hand, taking in a deep, shuddering breath between convulsions of laughter—then he met Shepard's eyes and they both collapsed into helpless giggles. It was breathless, crazy, and just a little desperate, and Shepard felt the air clearing with every passing second.

"Dammit, Vakarian, I'm calling off the wedding."**  
**


	5. Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

* * *

**December 25th, 2183**

_7:20 p.m._

* * *

"Table for two, please," Shepard told the asari waitress.

The restaurant Garrus had chosen had good ambience. Water patterns rippled fluidly across the charcoal grey walls, changing in the dim light, and the music offered a slow, unobtrusive ground beat in the background. The table to which Garrus and Shepard were led was lit by a bowl of glowing marbles in white and blue. The pretty asari waitress took both their drink orders and left them with a pair of menus.

"She likes you," Garrus said as soon as she was gone. "Why is it that asari everywhere always like you?"

"That isn't true."

"Come on, Shepard. The Consort… Dr. T'Soni…"

"That's two asari."

"Shiala, the one on Feros."

"Three."

"There's more, I just don't know their names." Garrus leaned back in his chair, looking around. He was wearing his visor, Shepard noticed, as well as his armour. She couldn't see how he could possibly be comfortable. "I've never actually been here before. Nice place."

Shepard was attracting quite a few odd looks from the restaurant's other patrons. She blamed it on the sweater. "How have you been, Garrus? I haven't had a chance to really ask."

"Well, you know what I've been up to. Reconstruction, C-Sec business, patrols. I'm more curious about you."

"Right. I suppose I can talk freely now." She glanced around and shifted slightly so that her torso was angled across the table, closer to Garrus, without looking too suspicious. "Officially, I've been clearing out merc and pirate bases across Citadel space, along with any geth I find. But Anderson has also been forwarding me intelligence leads on the locations of Reaper and Prothean artifacts."

Garrus looked at her, suddenly still. "It isn't over," he said quietly.

Shepard laughed. "It's never over."

"But even after everything, you still have to sneak around. Like what you're doing isn't legitimate on its own, just because the Council won't publicly acknowledge it." He clenched one of his fists, mandibles tight against his jaw. "It isn't right."

"I'm tired of it, too," Shepard confessed, pushing her hair back from her face. It needed to be trimmed again; much longer and it might start interfering with her ability to concentrate. "But at least they're letting me do _something._ Who knows? I might actually get somewhere with this."

"If anyone can, it's you."

"It would be easier with a full crew. Anderson keeps sending me dossiers, but I haven't found anyone I want. They're all special operatives with crystal-clear records and top-notch aptitude scores. They're all the _same._"

"Not enough crazy krogans and quarian machinists for you, hmm?"

"I think one of each is enough. There's only one of each that I want."

"And what about handsome turian snipers? Got any room for one of those?"

"Just one. But he's got important work to do somewhere else."

"Don't give up on him yet, Shepard." Garrus dipped his hand into the bowl of glowing marbles, rolling a few over his hand. The light reflected off his metallic skin, catching Shepard's eye. _I could sit here forever,_ she realized. Just looking at him, watching him move. The galaxy seemed to stand still.

"I want some of those for my cabin."

"Grab a handful."

"No thanks. I'm not getting kicked out of a restaurant on my first day back."

"Here you are." The asari waitress stepped up next to the table, holding a tray with two tall, slender glasses neatly balanced atop. She set the red-tinted glass down in front of Garrus and the blue-tinted one in front of Shepard. She leaned quite close to Shepard as she did it, chest nearly brushing her neck, and Shepard saw Garrus grin over her shoulder. _Shut up, Vakarian._

"I'll have…" Garrus proceeded to say something that made Shepard's translator glitch not once, or twice, but three times.

The asari understood him perfectly. "Of course. And you, miss?"

_She doesn't recognize me,_ Shepard thought in relief. _Thank God._ "I'll just have the fettuccine alfredo with minestrone soup. Double portion, please." She tapped the back of her neck in the universal gesture for _biotic._

"I didn't understand a word you just said," Garrus said when the waitress left.

"Neither did I. I guess we'll see when the food comes."

Shepard had ordered her drink on the waitress's recommendation: it was an attractive, fresh-tasting blend of human liquor, since she had decided to stay far away from asari liquor for a while yet. Human alcohol she could handle; asari alcohol, not so much. "How's yours?" she asked.

"Fine." He took a short draft from the spout of his glass, the same shape as the cups in the kitchen. "It's originally quarian brew. Some kid on his Pilgrimage made a killing selling it on Palaven."

The moment he was finished speaking, Shepard's senses told her that someone was approaching from behind her chair. She stiffened and turned her head to see the waitress approaching with another asari in tow, this one slightly taller and sporting elaborate facial tattoos. "Excuse me, miss," said the tall asari, presumably a manager of some sort. "Weapons are forbidden in this restaurant. The sign says outside."

"I'm C-Sec," Garrus said, folding his arms. "That gives me clearance."

"It does," acknowledged the asari. "But your… companion isn't."

Garrus looked at Shepard, who shrugged. "What makes you think I'm carrying weapons?"

If Garrus were human, he would probably have raised an eyebrow at that one. As it is, Shepard caught the look in his eye and scowled at him.

"I was a commando in my maiden years," the asari said dryly. "I think I can tell when someone is packing heat."

Shepard laughed, amused, and reached into her concealed belt holster, producing a sleek black pistol. It was an HMWP Master X, the most advanced model currently produced by elite Spectre manufacturers, and easily identifiable by the Master Gear emblem on the barrel. She hadn't gone anywhere without it since its purchase. The former commando recognized it immediately, and her blue eyes widened. "Oh. Commander Shepard! I didn't… I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you."

Shepard glanced down at her front. "It's the sweater. I don't blame you."

"Spectres are certainly authorized to carry weapons on the Citadel. I'm very sorry for interrupting your meal, Commander. Allow me to put your bill on the house tonight."

"That won't be necessary."

"I insist." Both asari were the very picture of docility now; the waitress's lips were slightly parted as she stared at Shepard. "Your food will be ready momentarily. I apologize again for disturbing you." Before Shepard could protest further, the asari left.

"A turian five-year-old would be able to tell you were packing heat, Shepard," Garrus teased. "It doesn't take an asari commando."

Shepard shrugged. "I'm a Spectre. I don't really have to go to a lot of trouble to conceal my weapons. Most people assume I'm carrying them anyway."

"I'm surprised she didn't recognize you right away. Your face has been plastered across every vid screen on the Citadel for most of the last month."

"You underestimate the power of a disguise, Garrus. No one expects to find the Hero of the Citadel wearing a Christmas sweater."

"Still. Asari are supposed to be better at telling aliens apart than other species. I suppose it's because most asari look fairly similar to each other." Garrus sipped his drink, looking utterly relaxed. Shepard studied his face in the shifting light and realized that she could make out a tiny blemish in his face paint, near the corner of his right eye; he had missed a spot, a notch about the size of a pin in the otherwise smooth curving line of blue paint. He must have been distracted while applying it. She didn't think many other non-turians would notice.

"You're right. Even ones who are about eight hundred years apart in age. I still can't get over that."

"Matriarch Benezia was showing her age when we fought her."

"It was probably the indoctrination."

"Right. The same thing happened to Saren."

Shepard cocked her head, interest piqued. Saren had looked different from all of the other turians she had met: his face craggier, less distinct and symmetrical. She had put it down to his lack of facial markings and visible cybernetics for the most part, but had also thought he looked quite a bit older than, say, Garrus. "Really? How old was he?"

"Only forty-four when we killed him. But he looked a lot older. It was probably a combination of indoctrination and the implants."

"So you're not going to look like him in ten years."

Garrus snorted. "No. At least, I hope not."

"I would still let you back on the ship if you were ugly, you know. Although I might visit you less often."

"Me, ugly?" He laughed cockily, a sound she had really missed. "You'd be better off looking for a brainiac krogan or a baritone salarian. Anyway, you humans age worse than turians do, even with plastic surgery."

"Our skin is a lot looser. What do you expect? We wrinkle easily."

"It's more than that. Your very elderly are almost incapable of caring for themselves. Turians retain basic functioning and can remain productive members of the community right up until death, barring sickness."

"At least we have more or less the same lifespan. Humans live longer than most other things back on Earth even without modern medicine."

"Which only goes to show that your Mother Nature was not a very careful architect. Turians aren't even close to the longest-lived life-forms on Palaven."

"Oh? What _are_ the longest-lived life-forms?"

Garrus smiled. "Lorikains. Small, heavily radiation-resistant winged animals. Coldblooded omnivores."

"What do they look like?"

"I'll show you one sometime. They're quite common on Palaven. Completely fearless, probably because they're so hard to kill, but not aggressive. They're popular as pets; when you get tired of them, you can leave them somewhere and they'll be just fine."

Shepard frowned. "Wouldn't they overpopulate?"

"Self-regulating population. They never have more than one or two young. Our scientists have declared them the most biologically perfect species on Palaven… if they evolved to become sentient, we turians would probably lose our place as the planet's leading race."

"Wow."

"What about Earth? Any species superior to humans?"

Shepard shifted uncomfortably. "It's… hard to tell. So many of Earth's species have been wiped out or at least endangered. Most of the big predators have already disappeared. We haven't exactly been kind to our environment."

"You mean they didn't evolve to human-made conditions? Form city ecosystems, coexist? That's what happened on Palaven."

"Humanity expanded so fast. We didn't give the rest of the planet much time to adapt. The industrial age hit and we started chopping everything down to make room for us."

"I see." Garrus poured the marbles in his hand back into the bowl; they made small clinking noises as they landed. "Not much has changed."

Shepard sniffed. "To be fair, we did the krogan one better. At least we didn't nuke ourselves back to the Stone Age."

He laughed. "That's true."

The asari waitress arrived, bringing a tray heavily laden with their food—most of it Shepard's. By the time she left, the small table was completely covered in dishes. "Now that is the problem with dextro- and levo-based species having dinner together," Garrus said, wrinkling his nose. "I can't decide whether your food smells disgusting or appetizing."

"Yours barely smells like anything." Shepard tucked into her pasta, savoring the taste of butter and garlic on her tongue. Among all of their other gifts, asari tended to be excellent cooks. Unfortunately, Liara had not possessed much ability in that area, much to the detriment of the Normandy's crew. "Mmm. I haven't tasted anything this delicious in months."

"That's one advantage of living on the Citadel. You can get good food whenever you like, as long as you know where to look." Garrus picked up one of the odd, spear-like utensils that lay alongside his plate and snagged a piece of his food on the tip. He had ordered a plate full of chunks of colorless, almost translucent meat, laced with a silvery, metallic-looking sauce. Shepard, who rarely witnessed him eating his own native food, watched in fascination as he bit off a piece of the tough meat and began tearing it into small bits with his sharp teeth. "Although I have to express my skepticism of whatever you ordered. It looks like worms."

"It's pasta. What's _that?"_ She poked her fork at a small bowl of smooth stones, each about the size of a robin's egg, sitting next to his dish of meat. The stones were topped with pale blue flowers, the silky petals of which glistened wetly in the light.

"For digestion." Garrus picked up the bowl, popped each of the flowers into his mouth, and swallowed. He didn't do much chewing, Shepard noticed. She wondered if he had any molars at all. He offered her the last flower, holding it across the table in the palm of his hand.

"I don't know if I can eat that. I'm not usually allergic to dextro food, but still."

"Not to eat," he scoffed. "To keep. They're from Palaven; if you put it on a desk, it'll stay like this for years before wilting. And I've been told they smell good even to humans."

Shepard took the flower, held it to her nose, and sniffed. It did smell good, she decided. Sort of like butter blooms, a species of flora native to Mindoir. "Thanks."

He started sorting through the stones in the bowl with a claw, humming quietly to himself as he discarded each one and set it on the tabletop. Shepard watched in confusion, reluctant to disturb him by asking what he was doing. She liked the sound of him humming; it was something he tended to do when concentrating hard on a task, like lining up a long-distance shot or repairing damage to the Mako. At last he selected a stone and, after spending about five minutes examining the smooth surface for irregularities or blemishes, put it in his mouth and swallowed, the muscles of his throat rippling.

"They're always offered to turians at meals as a courtesy," he explained, "but we only have one about once a year. I'm due for another."

"Interesting." She was about halfway through her pasta; wanting something different, she turned to her bowl of soup and began eating it with a spoon. She caught Garrus watching her, perplexed.

"Why don't you just drink it?"

"I don't actually know," she admitted. "It's just politer to eat it this way."

He shook his head. "Only humans would think of something like that."

Being a biotic, she took much longer than he did to finish eating. She was accustomed to eating at a faster rate than normal soldiers to fit a larger amount of food into the same time slot—lunch breaks weren't extended for biotics—but Garrus was even quicker. He didn't speak after finishing; he just rested his bony elbows on the tabletop and watched her, apparently fascinated by the sight of her slurping liquid from a spoon and winding strands of pasta around her fork. Compared to his relatively simple way of eating, with no utensils other than a glorified pointy stick, human table manners must have seemed impossibly intricate.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer," she informed him dryly.

He blinked, looking mildly startled. "What?"

"Human expression. We use it when someone's staring."

"Oh." He sounded abashed. "Sorry."

"I don't mind." When she looked up again, he had actually activated his omni-tool and was pointing a virtual camera lens at her. "I didn't mean literally!"

"Why not? Might as well have one good picture of you that isn't fabricated by reporters." He snapped a shot while Shepard was struggling to look somewhat less like a glutton and more like a sophisticated Alliance officer with passable table manners. She didn't know whether it worked.

"Fine. I won't begrudge you a few pictures. Who knows when we'll be able to do this again?"

"Tomorrow, for starters. And the day after, if you're willing."

"I didn't realize you were planning on kidnapping me for so long."

He smiled, easily picking up on the humor in her voice. "Are you kidding? I'm not letting you out of my sight until Joker comes to drag you back to the Normandy."

"Bad things happen when we're separated. It's true."

"You come down with potentially fatal sneeze attacks and I get teased by my coworkers about a nonexistent girlfriend."

"Of course, it could be argued that _equally_ bad things happen when we're together. Geth attacks and threats of galaxy-wide extinction, for example."

"I'd rather be fighting for my life next to you than bored to death, alone in an office."

"Good point, Garrus. Good point."


	6. On a Scale of One to Ten

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: Reviews seem to be slowing down a tad bit... I wonder if it's because of the longer gaps between chapters?**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

On a Scale of One to Ten…

* * *

**December 25th, 2183**

_11:37 p.m._

* * *

"Now, just give me a minute to figure this out," Garrus said, staring intently at his apartment.

He and Shepard were standing in the den, which was so small that Shepard was practically pressed up against the wall to give Garrus room to stand. The wall was, in fact, made entirely of thick glass: a huge window overlooking a magnificent view of the Wards and the stunning galactic vista surrounding the parted arms. Transport shuttles raced to and fro between buildings, creating an ever-changing background of lights and shapes, with the sound completely sealed off by noise-proof glass. Shepard was anything but afraid of heights, but even she had to focus on breathing deeply with that 250-meter drop just inches from her face.

"If you take the bed, and I sleep on the sofa in here…"

"You can't be serious," Shepard interrupted. She eyed the sofa critically. It was obviously much too short to accommodate someone of Garrus's height, or even Shepard's; it was more of a loveseat than a couch. "You'd never fit. I'm much more flexible."

"I wouldn't make my commanding officer sleep on a _couch_," Garrus said, sounding appalled by the very idea. "I know I'm a bad turian, but I would never do something like that."

"Well, you might have to let your morals slide for a while. It's far too late for me to find a motel now. Everyone knows you can't get a room on the Citadel after eight o'clock." Shepard crossed her arms, daring him to argue. "I've slept on worse things than a short couch, Garrus."

"Just feel it. The cushions are like rocks. It's a turian couch. You'd break your back."

Shepard gingerly tested a cushion. He was right. Damn.

"It's not going to kill me. What other options do we have?"

"The bed is softer."

"You really aren't going to give up, are you?"

"Damn it, Shepard, I didn't mean for this to happen. If Aya hadn't given away that unit, nothing would have gone wrong." Garrus turned, as if he were about to start pacing, then took in the size of the room and seemed to think better of it. "Tell me, Shepard. What's the strangest sleeping situation you've ever had?"

She didn't have to think too hard. "A few years ago, I was on a covert operation on an asari colony world, investigating connections to human shares in a sex trafficking ring. I had to hide out in a brothel suite with six asari strippers for three days while gang enforcers swept the place, looking for me."

Garrus looked momentarily dazed. "Uh… right. Well, compared to that… Exactly how strange, on a scale of one to ten, would you consider sharing a bed with a turian?"

She shouldn't have been surprised. It was obvious that he had been leading up to this. But damn it all if she wasn't surprised, anyway. "That depends. Would said turian hog the blankets?"

Garrus smiled, visibly relieved. "Said turian would be a perfect gentleman, of course."

"About a six, then. Which is within the realm of reasonable possibility, I'd say."

She was only half correct. Getting ready for bed with a turian in the same room deserved a lot higher than a "six" rating. Garrus stared, mandibles extended in confusion, as she brushed her teeth over his sink with the bathroom door open. Apparently he had never seen anyone clean their teeth that way before; turians had a sort of cleaning solvent in their saliva that prevented bacteria from growing in their mouths and kept their teeth free of contaminants. It was Shepard's turn to stare when he removed his guns from their holsters, put most of them in the closet, placed one within easy reach on the bedside table, and proceeded to climb into bed fully armoured. "I thought you were joking when you said turians sleep in armour."

"I never joke," he said with a completely straight face, before turning his back on her and switching off the lamp.

Shepard had modified her sleeping attire to accommodate the current situation. Normally she slept either in her underwear or, on occasion, entirely nude. Those were the kinds of luxuries that officers with their own private quarters could afford. Even though turians were generally much more comfortable with nudity than other species, having gone without clothing for thousands of years before joining the galactic community, Shepard decided that stripping down to her skivvies was probably not appropriate under current circumstances. She shed as much outerwear as she could, including her jacket, belt, shoes, and socks, until she was wearing only regulation fatigues and cloth undershirt. Garrus inconspicuously kept his back turned while she changed, even though she didn't technically reveal any skin. She appreciated the gesture, anyway.

Now for the part with the most potential awkwardness involved: getting into bed.

And this was where the "partially correct" part came into play. Settling into bed next to her armoured alien best friend was actually surprisingly weirdness-free. As she shifted in an attempt to get comfortable on the slightly harder-than-normal mattress, Shepard recalled the night they had spent camping under the stars during the mission to catch Saren. The crew had slept in a loose circle around the campfire, using the sleeping bags from their emergency wilderness survival kits (still, after centuries, a vital part of every soldier's equipment). She and Garrus had been close even then, and she had spent the night with his comforting warmth on one side and Wrex's on the other (she was the only crew member who agreed to sleep within ten feet of the ship's resident krogan). Even without the surveillance systems actively tracking the camp's perimeter throughout the night, she would have felt safe, sleeping between two of the most dangerous predators in the galaxy—and two of her closest friends.

This situation was slightly different. For one, she and Garrus weren't in separate sleeping bags. They were close together, under the same sheets, with barely six inches of space between them (it wasn't a terribly large bed). Yet it felt much the same. She was a special operative, accustomed to sleeping in odd places, and the only thing she really needed to be comfortable was a trusted partner at her back. As long as she pretended they were trying to catch a few hours of sleep in potentially dangerous, unsecured territory with hostiles roaming the place looking for them, she could relax without a problem—as bizarre as that sounded.

"I have universal sleeping pills, if you need some," Garrus rumbled at her back. He sounded different, his voice deeper and the flanging effect more noticeable. Perhaps that was what happened when turians were sleepy.

"I think I'll be okay tonight." It took her a few moments to realize the full implications of his statement. "Wait. How do you know that I have trouble sleeping?"

He was quiet for a few moments. She turned her head slightly, far enough to be able to see him. He was lying on the side of the bed closest to the window, and the many lights of the Citadel at night illuminated his figure; the sweeping curves of his shoulder and waist were so pronounced when he lay on his side that she felt the oddest urge to trace them with her finger. "I… don't know if you remember, Shepard. You once fell asleep in the Mako while I was driving, a long time ago."

"I remember," she said slowly. In fact, she suspected it would be very, very hard for her to forget. She hadn't slept for about three days before that incident, and without stims to keep her awake, she had simply passed out during the drive and woken up on Garrus's shoulder. They hadn't known each other for a terribly long time before that, and realizing that she already felt amazingly comfortable around him was an unsettling revelation. "But what does that have to do with it?"

"I may have visited Chakwas afterward. To ask her if you were all right."

"Oh. She told you." Shepard had always felt the faintest bit guilty about concealing her… problem from her crew. It felt like she was potentially putting them at a disadvantage, not knowing such a thing about their commanding officer. But she had never been able to figure out how to casually breach the subject with anyone. Chakwas had probably picked up on how she felt, and decided that, by sharing knowledge of Shepard's sleeping disorder with squadmates who asked, she was doing the commander a favor. "It's not that big of a deal. She told you it wasn't a big deal, right?"

"She said you were handling it."

"It's even gotten better. It was really bad for a while after the first time with the beacon, but it got better."

"That's good to hear."

They were both quiet for a while. Shepard had slept much longer than usual the night before, thanks to Chakwas's sleeping pills, so she didn't really feel sleepy yet; just relaxed. Like she could lie here and watch shadows move on the wall, listening to Garrus breathe, for hours into the night. Her last sleepover with a friend had been ages ago, before the slaughter on Mindoir. She could barely remember it, but she suspected it had felt something like this.

"Are you comfortable?" Garrus asked. It felt like hours had passed. Shepard hadn't realized he was still awake.

"It's no five-star hotel mattress. But I've slept on much worse."

He chuckled sleepily, obviously realizing that she was joking, not complaining. She wouldn't have said it to anyone else for fear of offending them. "I apologize in advance for any aches and pains you may experience come morning."

Shepard had to laugh at that one, though she managed to muffle most of it in the pillow. It was so ridiculously inappropriate, yet Garrus probably didn't even realize he'd said anything wrong. She was too amused to explain it to him. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm pretty durable."

"Good," he said, sounding relieved. The poor adorable bastard. "I wouldn't want to be responsible for giving the galaxy's greatest hero a backache."

"You should really stop calling me that, you know."

"What? It's true."

"You're going to have to start calling yourself the galaxy's greatest sidekick, then."

"Sidekick? I prefer to think of myself as the hero of the galaxy's somewhat less famous, though arguably better-looking co-star."

"Speaking of which, have you heard anything else about that movie?"

"There's a trailer out, if you want to see it."

"How can they have released a trailer when they haven't even casted the thing yet?"

"I have no clue. But apparently it's big news. I was waiting for you to get here before I watched it. The movie's supposed to be the hottest thing this spring."

"So how does this work? Do we get royalties?"

"I think Anderson sold the producers the rights to your image. Profits go to benefit the Alliance military. Someone must have done the same with mine. We might get a share, but not much."

"I don't even care anymore. Just as long as people don't start begging me for autographs."

She could hear the smirk in his voice, even with his back turned. "What, like Conrad Verner?"

"Don't even get me started on him."

"It was cute. You handled it well."

"Let's have a mutual agreement not to use the word 'cute' to refer to either of us ever again, okay? I'm sorry I ever started it."

"Too late now, Shepard. It's part of my vocabulary."

That was the last thing she remembered hearing. Some indeterminate time later, Shepard opened her eyes to a dark room and the sound of Garrus's level breathing at her back. She wasn't fully conscious yet, still in that phase between dreaming and waking. Lights moved on the wall, reflecting the view from the window. She turned her head slightly and saw that Garrus had shifted positions and was now facing her. His eyes were closed, but his visor glowed a low blue in the dark. Every time he exhaled, his mandibles fluttered softly.

It was a strangely relaxing sight, like watching her brother sleep when she was young. Even back then, she had been a light sleeper, prone to waking during the night and not being able to fall asleep again. She had shared a room with Casey and Lizzie, but little Lizzie was always bundled up in blankets and hidden from sight, so Shepard had usually watched Casey instead. Her brother had an extremely light snore, just loud enough to be audible, but faintly soothing at the same time.

Garrus was a lot like her brother, Shepard realized. Casey, too, had been sarcastic and hotheaded, impatient with rules and dull people. Yet, like Garrus, Casey had never argued or lost his temper with the people he really respected.

Shepard had no illusions about how much Garrus respected her. He was fairly obvious about it; there was no point in being modest. By her estimation, Garrus was one of the most talented people she had ever met. It was obvious that his skills had been wasted in C-Sec, were still being wasted. But Shepard sensed that, if allowed to work on his own, Garrus could very easily become his own worst enemy. He was a powerful gun without a safety catch, so to speak. Without someone to keep him in line, remind him what he was fighting for, he could derail himself. The line between fighting for justice and fighting for some twisted personal interpretation of justice was thin at the best of times.

_He's what I would have been without Anderson,_ Shepard realized. Anderson had taught her to harness her natural skills, use them in conjunction with her personal morals to get the job done while keeping everyone as safe as possible. From the looks of it, Garrus hadn't been blessed with a similar teacher.

C-Sec wasn't a perfect solution. But it was keeping Garrus occupied, and he was working for a good cause. Even if it wouldn't last, it was good for him. Better than jaunting around the galaxy with a Spectre, growing complacent in the absence of rules and structure.

It was selfish of Shepard to want him back on the Normandy. But she did, more than anything.

Suddenly wide awake and restless, Shepard slipped out of bed, moving as quietly as she could. Even so, she heard Garrus make a small noise and shift before growing still again. Silently, Shepard made her way out of the bedroom. There were no doors in Garrus's apartment, just open doorways apart from the en-suite bathroom; that was probably part of the asari influence she had glimpsed in the building's architecture. The flat was conveniently lit by softly glowing tubes running around the edge of the ceiling, dimmed for nighttime but still light enough to see by.

Shepard entered the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. As she drank, she noticed the voice-stone box sitting on the table, where they had left it earlier. Moving over to the table, she opened the box. At first she was unsure how to tell the two identical orbs apart; she touched them both, and the second one pulsed gold at her touch. The weight of it was soothing in her palm. Holding the stone, she made her way back to the bedroom and sat on the floor next to the window, leaning her back against the bed.

The cloudy white surface of her stone was not concrete. It seemed to ebb and flow with each of Garrus's inhales and exhales. Shepard held it close to her chest, between her knees, and gazed at the stars while Garrus breathed quietly in the bed behind her.

For a while, she wondered what turians dreamed. In hindsight, probably the same things as humans.


	7. Theirs But to Do or Die

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

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**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, guys! Sorry I'm a bit late at replying to a lot of them-I've been really busy lately. I will get to them soon, I promise.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Theirs But to Do and Die

* * *

**December 26th, 2183**

_7:30 a.m._

* * *

Garrus woke promptly at 7:30 a.m., as he had done almost every day for the last three weeks. Even though his biological clock was enough to wake him, he had wired an alarm into his visor as a precaution; a soft beeping noise and intermittent flashes of white light greeted him when he opened his eyes. "Deactivate," he mumbled sleepily, and the alarm shut off.

The moment it did so, the heat sensor activated and Garrus realized abruptly that there was someone in the room with him. He went completely still for a brief moment before memories from the day before flooded back to him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. However, the heat signature he was picking up wasn't in the bed, as he had expected, but on the floor _next_ to the bed.

Blinking drowsily, Garrus rolled over; he had ended up facing toward the center of the bed for some reason, though thankfully he had remained on his half instead of invading Shepard's personal space in his sleep. There she was, sitting on the floor with her back against the bed and head lolling on the sheets, asleep. Garrus immediately panicked, certain that he had done something to make her leave the bed: kicked her in his sleep, or started stealing the covers.

Then he saw the voice-stone in her lap, emitting a soft white glow. He remembered that she was a restless sleeper and realized that she had probably woken on her own. Had the stone helped her fall asleep again?

He tried to leave the room quietly, hoping he could go and fetch something to eat before she woke up. That seemed like the proper gesture to make in this situation. But she made a noise and woke with a start before he was halfway to the door, one hand flying out to grasp the air in front of her. "Liz—!"

"Shepard?" he called out, not wanting to startle her.

Her eyes cleared, her hand fell, and she looked at him. "Oh. Good morning."

He wasn't sure what she had called out upon waking. A half-formed word that his translator had not quite picked up, perhaps. "The floor doesn't look too comfortable. You can crawl back into bed if you like."

Shepard rose slowly to her feet and stretched. The voice-stone rolled off her lap and landed on the floor; she didn't seem to notice. "I'm all right. I got plenty of sleep. Do you have to go to work?"

"I'm on leave, remember?"

"Right." She didn't seem quite all there yet. Garrus reviewed his earlier experience of a just-woken Shepard and concluded that it was probably human behavior to be disoriented after sleep. "So you've just got the whole week off?"

"Well, Chellick knows I'm not leaving the Citadel. I could be called in if there's an emergency. But otherwise… yes."

"That's handy." She stretched, pushing her arms above her head in a motion Garrus had sometimes observed Johannes perform upon coming into the office early in the morning. The dog tags he had given her bounced against her chest, the strand of eezo giving off a subtle violet glow. "Where's my gun?"

"On the table, next to mine."

Businesslike as always, she grabbed her pistol and belt and began dressing herself again. Garrus didn't feel the need to turn away this time; there was some vague difference between dressing and undressing, even when neither showed any skin. "I have to go to the markets today and buy some civvies. I left all my other clothes on the ship."

"Always travel light, hmm?"

She winked at him. "Once a Marine, always a Marine."

* * *

**December 26th, 2183**

_9:03 a.m._

* * *

On the shuttle to the markets, Garrus noticed Shepard checking her omni-tool. He had already done the same, as he did every morning. "Anything interesting?"

"Thank-you note from Liara, for her Christmas gift," Shepard said, tilting her arm so Garrus could read the screen. She tapped a few buttons and the human script turned into something readable. Garrus scanned the text; Liara had been quite enthusiastic. "She said she sent something for me to the Normandy. Joker will have to pass it along."

"Maybe it's asari liquor," Garrus said. He really couldn't resist. A faint blush coloured Shepard's cheeks, but she otherwise ignored him.

"It's nice of her. I know asari don't celebrate Christmas. She gave me something for my birthday, too."

Garrus decided not to mention that there was probably more than friendliness behind all of the gifts. Shepard no doubt knew, anyway. If the rumors were true, she had turned down Liara gently several months ago, during their mission. Garrus knew that asari generally took a long time to forget romantic interest; they were such a long-lived species that moving on sometimes took decades or centuries rather than years. Quite the opposite of salarians.

At the markets, Shepard quickly located a human clothing store and disappeared into the changing area while Garrus amused himself with browsing the wall of the latest human fashions. He was laughing quietly at a particularly ridiculous outfit when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Shepard was standing behind him. "You said you'd never seen me in civvies. Well, here you are."

He studied her. She was wearing a modest white shirt made of some clinging synthetic material, cut just above her elbows and worn beneath a dark blue vest with an artistically asymmetrical zipper. The pants were similar to fatigues, though in grey instead of black. If not for the dog tags hanging from her neck, a passersby might mistake her for a civilian. "Where's your gun?"

She smiled and put her hand inside the vest's collar, drawing out just enough barrel for him to see the glint of metal. "Right here. Shh."

"My lips are sealed," he promised her.

"Did you get that from a movie?"

"Maybe."

* * *

**December 26th, 2183**

_10:44 a.m._

* * *

"This is a cheeseburger," Shepard informed him, holding out the greasy paper-wrapped object for his inspection.

Garrus examined it as closely as he could without touching it. The smell it gave off was just as bewildering as Shepard's meal the night before: strongly reminiscent of food, but _off_ somehow. "And these are unhealthy for humans?"

"Very unhealthy." Shepard withdrew the cheeseburger and took a large bite. When she pulled the thing away, it left faint grease stains on her lips. Garrus tried to look interested rather than disturbed.

They were sitting in a McDonald's. Garrus had never actually been inside one before. The place was packed full to bursting with humans; he was the only alien in the place. Stains and product wrappers littered most of the tables; Shepard had asked someone to clear theirs off before they sat down, assuring Garrus that this was normal in a fast-food joint. To Garrus's keen nose, the stench of oil, grease and chemicals saturated the place, along with the strange not-food smells of levo-cuisine. The restaurant—if it could be called that—was staffed by only two people, at two purchasing terminals; the food, according to Shepard, was assembled by machine. The menu holograph above the terminals was printed entirely in human script and faded away at seemingly random intervals to be replaced by huge pictures of food, as well as video clips of a human male in striped clothing and garish face paint interacting with human children.

"Is it good?" Garrus asked Shepard skeptically.

"No, it's terrible." She took another large bite and chewed—something Garrus found strange to watch, even after all of his time interacting with humans. He found any species that needed to thoroughly mash its food into textureless pulp before swallowing a little difficult to grasp. "Tastes like boot camp."

"You don't have to finish it, do you?"

"I want to."

Humans. Logic. It all made Garrus's head spin.

"So this is a date?"

Shepard smiled. "Yes. Having fun?"

"Definitely."

* * *

**December 26th, 2183**

_12:21 p.m._

* * *

Constructing a permanent memorial for a single fallen soldier on a high-traffic station like the Citadel was not military protocol. As such, the Council had respectfully denied Shepard's written request for a small memorial to one Chief Ashley Williams to be built somewhere on the Presidium. The Citadel was home to many races, they explained, and to show preference to one race above others by allowing the construction of a private memorial with military funding was simply not appropriate. They were sorry, they acknowledged Ashley William's sacrifice and honored her for her bravery, but it could not be done.

So, the day after the public ceremony the Council had decided to hold in her honor in the aftermath of the last battle, Shepard slipped off to a quiet corner of the Wards with her new medal weighing heavy around her neck. There she privately contracted a real estate owner for a small segment of his property, between the Hyanna Interspecies Gardens and the Citadel Museum of Military History. Citadel real estate was at a premium, and the four-meter-wide square of land she bought cost twenty thousand and four hundred credits. Shepard paid every credit from her private account.

All of this went through Garrus's mind as he stood before the memorial and watched Shepard slowly approach, holding a worn book in one hand. It was Ashley's, as she had explained to him earlier, the only personal effect Williams had left on board the Normandy. In the absence of any stipulation in Ashley's will and testaments regarding the book, Shepard had decided to keep it.

"I wanted her memorial where everyone would see it," Shepard said to Garrus when he asked why she had spent so much money to buy land on the Citadel, instead of a human colony. "So no one can forget her. The Citadel's been around for billions of years. I want her to live just as long."

The memorial itself was a work of art. Simple, almost understated, but enduring. Tall and polished, it rose above the pulsing day-to-day activity in the Wards. It was made of a smooth black metal alloy and carved in sweeping lines. Garrus didn't know whom Shepard had contracted to do the work, but they certainly knew what they were doing.

"What do you think, Garrus?" Shepard was holding the book open. Garrus stepped closer to look over her shoulder, before realizing that the book was written entirely in human script, and unlike a datapad, he couldn't simply press a button to translate it. "'In Flanders Fields' or 'High Flight?'"

"Read them to me."

_"'Take up our quarrel with the foe,'"_ recited Shepard in a low, rhythmic voice. "_'To you from failing hands we throw / The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die / We shall not sleep, though poppies grow / In Flanders Fields.'"_

"It sounds like her," Garrus said slowly. "Read the other one."

"'_Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth / And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; / And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod / The high untrespassed sanctity of space, / Put out my hand and touched the face of God.'"_

Garrus shook his head, bemused. "I don't know, Shepard. I'm no poet."

"Neither am I." She thumbed the pages, a well-worn frown curving her lips to match the book's stained cover. "I just want it to sound right."

Garrus craned his neck, looking up at the memorial. He couldn't read the script etched into the glossy surface, but he knew that the first two words were Ashley's name, and the rest was a poem. "What's written up there already?"

"Tennyson. '_Forward, the Light Brigade! / Was there a man dismayed? / Not though the soldier knew / Someone had blundered: / Theirs not to make reply, / Theirs not to reason why, / Theirs but to do and die, / Into the Valley of Death / Rode the six hundred.'"_

She recited the poem without looking up from the book. Garrus thought he heard _something_ in her voice, a tiny catch like a lock opening, but her face was devoid of emotion. "Shepard," he said. "What does 'blundered' mean?"

"To make a mistake."

Yes, there was definitely a catch there.

"But that's wrong, Shepard. No one… blundered. Not on Virmire."

"It doesn't matter." She wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'll just do both." She removed a sheet of white paper from between the book's yellowed pages, produced a pen from her pocket, and sat down cross-legged in front of the memorial. Garrus watched as she began to trace alien symbols across the paper, tongue clenched between her teeth in concentration. He had never seen her write something by hand before; it was strange to look at, almost transfixing.

"I heard someone giving directions the other day," Garrus said quietly. He didn't want to disturb her, but the words came out of their own accord. "_Take the shuttle to Station 23, walk down a few blocks, and turn left at the Ashley Williams Memorial."_

That made her smile. "I told you people would notice."

It took quite a while for her to finish. She traced the words with painful slowness; it obviously took an effort for her to form them neatly. While she wrote, Garrus approached the memorial and laid his own offering, a pristine polishing cloth and an unopened bottle of firearm cleaning fluid, on the broad shelf chiseled into the stone that already held tributes from prior visitors: preserved flowers from Ashley's sisters, a sealed letter from Kaidan, more flowers, these ones wilting, from Joker. As he stepped away, he noticed something odd on the side of the memorial.

"Shepard, look at this."

She frowned, but put the book and paper down and came to look. For a moment she was utterly still, staring past him as all the colour blanched from her face. Garrus looked at her uneasily, suddenly regretting his impulse to call out to her. Should he have kept quiet…?

"I can't believe this," she said, her voice taut with cold fury. "They painted _graffiti_ on Ash's memorial."

"That's the symbol of the Blue Suns," Garrus realized aloud. "They must have been signaling to a contact. Fairly common on the Wards."

She said nothing, her lips pressed tightly together. Garrus looked down and saw that her fragile human hands were balled into fists. Suddenly she swung around, and for a moment, Garrus had the bizarre notion that she was about to punch him.

"_Garrus_," she bit out. "Do something. There's got to be security footage. _Something_. I'll shoot them."

"Shepard, I can't," he said gently, reaching out to take her by the shoulders. He had never done anything like it before, but it felt like the right thing to do. "There aren't any cameras on this part of the Wards. Too much private property."

"I… Damn it." She turned and he lost his grip on her. "It isn't right. It isn't _right._ I should kill them." Her hand flew under her vest and he saw the glint of metal at her throat. "Every Blue Sun I can find…"

He tried again, moving closer and placing his hand on her wrist. "Would she have cared?"

"Cared? What do you mean? I don't…"

"If some stupid turian painted his gang symbol on her memorial. Would Ash have cared?"

Shepard took a deep, shuddering breath. "I… No. No, she would have laughed. I've been…" She passed a hand over her eyes and released her grip on the gun. "I've been such an idiot. Jesus Christ."

It struck Garrus that he had never seen her lose composure before. "Come on. I'll clean this off. Go and finish your poem."

She laughed weakly and gave his hand a squeeze. "You don't need to treat me like a child. I'll be fine."

Garrus ended up using the rag and cleaning solvent he had brought in tribute. The powerful cleaning fluid, designed for resilient gunmetal, easily cut through the dried paint. By the time he was finished, Shepard had filled the entire page with her spindly handwriting. While Garrus folded the rag into a neat triangle and replaced it on the shelf with the bottle, Shepard rolled up the sheet of paper and produced an open, translucent canister from her pocket. She put the roll of paper inside and pressed a button, sealing the canister permanently.

"You deserved better," she said softly, placing the canister on the smooth, reflective shelf. Garrus didn't think he had been meant to hear; she had spoken almost too quietly for his translator to detect her voice. But he replied anyway.

"She got exactly what she deserved," he said, and Shepard looked at him with wide blue eyes. "You and the Normandy."


	8. You're It

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

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**A/N: So, I've run into an interesting conundrum... When I ask for reviews, you guys provide. Liberally. However, when I don't, I get maybe half the number of reviews I would have if I asked... Seems simple, right? BUT! Asking for reviews makes me feel bad. I always hate reading stories where the writer begs for reviews every chapter. That said, I do love reviews, and they are a large part of what keeps me writing (though I will keep writing with or without them, never fear). I guess I'll just leave it up to you guys to decide whether to review or not.**

**Oh, and trust me, I HAVE noticed that wonderful group of people who leave reviews on just about every chapter. You guys are the most amazing people ever and I'm not pointing fingers at you. Just so you know :)**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

You're It

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**December 26th, 2183**

_3:45 p.m._

* * *

"Now, let's see just how much you've been practicing," Garrus said, cocking his rifle.

They were standing in the C-Sec holographic firing range, open to all officers off-duty or on the clock. Holding Garrus's second favourite rifle, the Harpoon X, in her arms, Shepard looked incredibly small. It wasn't a word he would have ever thought to use in describing his commanding officer, but there it was. He was so used to seeing her with a single diminutive pistol in one hand that she looked out of place holding other weapons.

"I've been telling you," she said with a scowl. "There's no one to practice with on the Normandy."

"Sniping is a solitary art." Gently cradling his own Volkov in one arm, Garrus went to one of the computer terminals lining the firing range walls and began to swiftly input his session parameters. As he typed, the lights dimmed and the holographic projectors on the walls whirred into motion. Several moments later, he and Shepard were no longer standing in an artificially lit firing range, but under a hot tropical sun in a craggy, barren landscape littered with rocks and cliffs.

"Let's start with something easy."

"This is fairly impressive," Shepard noted, stepping toward him. The sun's hot yellow light reflected in her hair, which shone like dark red human blood. "Very realistic. I'm feeling the urge to put on sunscreen."

"It's all in your head." Garrus tapped his own goggles, which he had strapped on over his visor. If he took them off, the barren landscape would disappear and he would be standing in C-Sec headquarters once again. Shepard was wearing a similar pair, hiding her eyes from sight. "Question One. Where do you want to set up?"

Shepard bit her lip, looking around. The holographic rocky outcropping they stood upon was elevated above the dusty plain below, and Garrus had already picked out several spots where a hidden sniper might conveniently set up. But would Shepard know?

"There," she said confidently, striding to a large boulder and going to her knees.

"Very good." Garrus crouched behind a rock a few meters away, close enough to talk, but not near enough to present a double target for any hostiles below. Snipers never set up too close together. "I'll leave the rest to you. See how much you remember."

He didn't expect her to make any mistakes in setting up her equipment, and she didn't disappoint him. Alliance soldiers were expected to have basic proficiency in all weapons, after all; even Marines who weren't explicitly _trained_ in the use of sniper rifles would know how to set one up and line up a shot. The real test came when it was time to pick a target, aim, and shoot. A sniper was practically invulnerable until that first shot, when every hostile in the area was immediately alerted to their presence, and it became just a matter of picking as many off as possible until you were located and drawn out of cover. Then the game was _really_ afoot.

"How's that?" she asked. She was stretched out on her stomach, her human figure presenting a very different profile to a turian lying on the ground. There was no bulky outward jut of cowl at the shoulders, and below the waist she was much… curvier. Garrus checked her rifle configuration, the angle of her shoulders and the way she looked through the scope. It was all correct, much as he had expected.

"You haven't disappointed me yet. Now." He had swiftly assembled his own equipment in half the time Shepard had taken, used to the routine and maybe just a _tiny_ bit eager to show off for his commanding officer. It was only natural. "Let's go hunting."

* * *

**December 26th, 2183**

_6:17_ _p.m._

* * *

She did well with the first simulation; Garrus would have been very surprised if she hadn't. The rocks provided excellent cover, the targets down on the plain were slow-moving at best, and the cliffs eliminated the risk of hostiles flushing out their position. The second simulation, a four-level warehouse filled with armed gang members, presented more of a challenge; this was the standard training exercise that C-Sec officers were required to clear at least once a week. About halfway through, Garrus sensed that Shepard was growing impatient; the Harpoon was powerful and the accuracy slightly higher than his own Volkov, but the rate of fire and overall mobility was much less than what she was used to. They were in different parts of the virtual warehouse, but he could hear her grumbling over the comm in his helmet. "You've proven yourself," he said finally. "Go have some fun."

He didn't mean to make it sound quite so much like an order, and his first urge was to take it back. But then Shepard let out a war whoop and, from his vantage point, he saw her slim human figure vault over a pile of crates and go charging straight into the thick of things, pumping pistol rounds into the virtual gangsters. It was such a familiar sight that Garrus actually laughed through the comm. Then he had to focus on hitting things other than Shepard, who was right in the middle of his targets, messing up his shots. Just like old times.

When it was over, Garrus switched off the simulation and found Shepard disassembling his rifle, a huge smile on her face.

"I want one of these things for the Normandy."

Garrus snorted. "Why? You can get the real thing any day of the week."

* * *

**December 26th, 2183**

_7:02 p.m._

* * *

They had dinner in an expensive little café on the Presidium; Shepard ordered a plate of raw fish, some dark liquid called "soy sauce," and a bowl of something that looked like dead white maggots. "Embracing your inner krogan?" Garrus asked her.

"You bet," she replied, mopping up some soy sauce with a slab of limp fish flesh.

Afterward, he could tell that she was still restless from their shooting range escapade. Garrus could relate; it always took him a while to calm down after missions, too. They went for a walk in the Presidium Night Gardens, a section of the Presidium that was always shrouded in eternal twilight, unlike the twenty-four-hour daylight on the rest of the Citadel's inner ring. Thousands of different species of flowers lined the dark walkways, releasing a carefully engineered perfume into the air that was designed to smell appealing to every species on the station. The walkways were floored with artificial grass, so Shepard had taken off her boots and was walking barefoot. Garrus, who had only seen bare human feet on rare occasions before, could not stop glancing at her toes.

"They're so… small. And pink."

Shepard rolled her eyes. "Yes, Garrus. We've already established that humans are small, pink, squishy creatures. At least I don't have dinosaur feet."

Garrus peered critically at his own feet. "What's wrong with my feet?"

"Nothing's wrong with your feet. Just making conversation."

They walked for a while longer. Around them, tiny phosphorescent drones drifted among the flowers, emitting just enough light to see by. "Like fireflies," Shepard said.

"What?"

"Little glowing insects. When I was twelve, my dad brought a crate of them back from a business trip to Earth. We let them go in the fields."

"Earth insects? Did they survive?"

"Some did. Some didn't. We found dead ones in the crops. But years later, there were fireflies in every field."

"Impressive."

"Bugs are very good at adapting. Better than us." Shepard reached up and plucked one of the drifting drones from the air. Suspended in antigravity, it hovered within her palm, reflecting blue light between her fingers. "I like this place. I might come more often."

"This place reminds me of a game my sister and I used to play."

Shepard quirked an eyebrow at him. "Oh? What's that?"

Garrus grinned. "Catch me if you can."

He turned and took off down the walkway. He heard Shepard's startled laughter, then a yell of "Garrus!" and the sound of small, padded feet chasing after him. Garrus knew his stride was longer, but Shepard was surprisingly fast. He ducked around a dark corner to escape her and she went tearing past, her human eyes next to useless in the dim lighting. Garrus had never seen anything funnier in his life.

"I'm going to find you," she threatened loudly from two rows down. Garrus had to muffle his own laughter with his fist.

Okay. Time for a tactical analysis. He had an advantage due to his superior dim-light vision, but his footfalls were also heavier. Shepard was light, making it easier for her to sneak up on him. He had to find a way to evade her while being completely silent.

"And you said _humans_ were childish!" she called.

Garrus turned off the heat-tracking software on his visor, reasoning that it gave him an unfair advantage. Now the whole Night Gardens were dark to him. He listened closely, hearing the rustle of artificial wind in the flowers and the distant voices of other garden visitors. He could hardly believe what he was doing: playing a children's game with his commanding officer, the person he respected more than anyone else. Yet it felt completely right.

He heard footsteps approaching quietly on his left. Shepard rounded the corner and Garrus burst from cover, darting to take shelter in another row. A flower tickled the side of his neck and he fought the urge to twitch.

"You are the most ridiculous turian I've ever met."

He plucked a glowing drone from the air and threw it at her. The momentum propelled it across the distance; it bounced ineffectually off her sleeve and hung bemusedly in the air. She whirled around. "Mutiny!" Her voice was husky with laughter.

"No, just insubordination," he called back.

She chased after him and they ran through the Night Gardens, darting around startled pedestrians and dodging light drones. Garrus could only imagine what they must look like on the security cameras. Hopefully no one would recognize them in the dim light. He realized he'd lost track of Shepard and slowed slightly, glancing over his shoulder. Where had that pesky human gone? He couldn't see her anywhere.

"Gotcha!" She vaulted out from the row to his right, slamming into him and knocking them both to the ground. For a moment everything was confusion as they tumbled several paces, laughing breathlessly—then they rolled to a stop and Garrus managed to untangle himself from his commander, trying to get his breathing under control.

"All right, Shepard. You win."

"What? You're not going to chase me?"

"I'm done. You're a harder fight than a thresher maw."

She rolled onto her side, still letting out little huffs of laughter. There was a light drone tangled in her hair, bobbing uselessly in an attempt to escape. "I can't believe I just played tag with a turian. I'm _twenty-nine._"

"Tag?"

"It's what humans call that game."

Garrus reached over and plucked the light drone from her hair, lobbing it into the darkness. Both of them watched it fly down the row, disappearing into the flowers.

"Let's just lie here for a while," Shepard said, folding her arms behind her head. "I'm worn out."

He laughed. "So I've managed to do in the space of ten minutes what Saren and hundreds of geth couldn't do in a year."

"Someone should give you a medal." She closed her eyes. "How do you feel about board games?"

"What?"

"Fantastic. I'll buy some tomorrow."

* * *

**December 26th, 2183**

_9:14 p.m._

* * *

"It's too early. I won't be able to fall asleep for ages. Let's watch a movie."

Garrus let her browse the catalog on his entertainment terminal; after a few minutes, she chose a vid named _Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl_ and left it to download while she showered in his en-suite bathroom. Garrus was reading through the summary for the fifth time, trying and failing to make sense of it, when Shepard returned, wearing a set of black sweats that she had purchased earlier and a towel on her head.

"It's the 2140 digital remake," she said, sitting down on the sofa next to him. She smelled like hot water and the unscented regulation shampoo she used, which Garrus had decided not to mention actually _did_ have a scent. Maybe humans couldn't smell it, but he certainly could. It wasn't altogether unpleasant. "Same movie, better effects."

"What does 'swash-buckling' mean?"

"Um. Good question."

The terminal pinged, indicating that the download was finished. "Bring it up on the main screen," Garrus told the computer.

Thirty minutes later, he could not remember ever having been more confused in his life. "So this is humankind's vision of pirates? The reality is much more gruesome."

"Shh. This is my favourite part."

The vid had a certain charm, Garrus decided. The ancient setting was appealing in a romantic sort of way, and the naval conflict was an interesting parallel to space-fleet dynamics. The leading character's insistence on being called "Captain" was amusing as well. "It's not 360, but I like it."

"They didn't have 360 surround-technology back when the original was made. Now you see what I mean? This movie is exactly why I wanted to be a pirate."

"The heroine is surprisingly helpless."

Shepard sighed. "We were still trying to figure out sexism in the twenty-first century. I wanted to be Jack Sparrow, not Elizabeth."

"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow," Garrus said, earning himself a chuckle.

"You're catching on, Vakarian."

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_12:09 a.m._

* * *

"That movie was surprisingly enjoyable," Garrus said, stretching out on the bed as he watched Shepard clean her gun.

"Mmm. Yeah. They don't make them like that anymore."

Garrus had not been surprised to learn that the bag Shepard had brought was entirely full of her weapons and armour, along with a tiny plastic bag containing toiletries and firearm cleaning supplies. She was sitting on the floor now, her equipment spread out around her, with the unloaded HMWP Master X and a bottle of cleaning fluid in her lap. Garrus had offered to let her use his standard-issue gun-cleaning mech, but she said she preferred to do it herself.

"Want some help?"

"Sure." She tossed her helmet onto the covers next to him.

Garrus was familiar with the weekly ritual; back on the Normandy, Shepard had occasionally brought her equipment down to the cargo bay to chat with him and Wrex while she worked. Chief Williams had looked on from a distance for the first few months; then she started bringing her things over, too. Eventually Tali had gotten in on the weekly ritual and it had evolved into a mixture of cleaning, card-playing and comparing kill counts on the more recent missions. It was the first experience of spending casual downtime with a C.O. that Garrus had ever had.

He made sure to clean Shepard's helmet as thoroughly as possible, knowing that she would never let him live it down if he missed a spot. "I hope it was too dark in the Night Gardens for security camera facial recognition."

"Why? Worried about your coworkers teasing you again?"

"I thought you might be worried. If the media gets access to that video, you won't get a moment's rest."

Shepard snorted. "Oh, please. If they're concerned about Commander Shepard playing tag with her subordinates, they can go and take it up with the Reapers."

"That's what I like to hear." He tossed the clean helmet back to her. The helmet was the most valuable part of her armour, housing the VI core that automated all the necessary systems in the rest of the suit: life support, kinetic barriers, heat recognition and radar. It was a rare gesture that Shepard had allowed him to clean it for her; usually she insisted on doing it herself.

She placed the helmet on the floor next to the rest of her armour and remained silent for a few minutes, absently rubbing the barrel of her rarely-used assault rifle. "Thank you."

"No problem," he said, a little confused by the delay.

"Not the helmet. For talking me down earlier, at Ash's memorial." Shepard put the rifle down and leaned her chin against the side of the bed, looking up at him. "I was making a scene."

"It was understandable, Shepard. You were upset."

"But I should have stayed calm. I can't afford to lose it like that. Not with the Reapers coming and the galaxy still in danger and…" She blinked slowly, pulling herself into line, and managing at the same time to draw Garrus's attention to her burgundy eyelashes. Humans had hair in the strangest places. "I just want you to know that never happened before. Me acting like that, I mean."

"I know it didn't."

"And I'm glad you were there. To keep me under control." She smiled at him.

"Anytime."


	9. An Interspecies Tea Party

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: So, if I'm correct, this chapter is likely going to stir up some mixed response among my readers. But I stand by my decision to include it, since I think the subject is something that needed to be addressed, even in a clearly Shakarian fic. That being said, this is the Kaidan chapter. Readers beware.**

**...on another note, thank you guys so much for all of the reviews on the last chapter! Keep them coming!**

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

This Chapter Contains an Interspecies Tea Party

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_7:30 a.m._

* * *

"_Beep. Beep. Beep."_

Damn it. Shepard did _not_ want to open her eyes. Alarm clocks had been the scourge of her existence since boot camp. No, scratch that, since _high school._ Nothing important was happening today, right? Surely she could sleep five… more… minutes…

Damn it, where was the _snooze_ button on this thing?

"Um, Shepard…"

Startled by the sound of a _voice_ in her _bed_, Shepard opened her eyes. That was when she realized that her hand was on Garrus's face, fumbling blindly for a snooze button to shut off the alarm that she now realized was coming from his visor.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry."

"It's fine," he said gingerly, rubbing his eye. "You have damn quick reflexes, though. Deactivate."

The beeping shut off and Shepard buried her burning face in her pillow. "Sorry. I am… really sorry about that."

"There are much worse ways to wake up, trust me." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him kick back the covers and roll out of bed in one fluid, practiced movement, rotating his neck to work out the kinks and picking up the handgun that lay on the bedside table. She wondered if all turians learned how to do that in boot camp. Shepard had certainly never rolled out of bed quite so stylishly. She tended to resemble a bear recently awoken from hibernation in the mornings. "Is your back hurting yet?"

"No, actually. This thing is surprisingly comfortable." She grinned at him, feeling a little of her composure return. "Beats out the passenger seat of the Mako by a mile."

"I'll bet." He pulled on his boots, the only piece of armour he had discarded before getting into bed. Not quite able to muster the energy to get up, Shepard lay in bed and watched him. Turian boots were interesting; the actual shoe part was divided to accommodate larger turian toes, and the cuff elongated and shaped for rear-facing knees and knee spikes. There were also about six more straps to be locked into place than there were on Shepard's boots.

"Enjoying the show?"

"I'm wondering if high-heeled shoes for turians exist."

Garrus shuddered. "Spirits, I hope not." He padded out of the room, and she saw him going through the shelves in the kitchen through the open doorway. "We need to do some shopping if you're going to be staying here."

"Seems to be working out well so far," she called back. "Unless you want me to stay somewhere else…?"

"Did I say that?" He popped his head back into the frame of the bedroom door. "I didn't think this place was big enough for two, but I guess I forgot that humans are really small."

Shepard threw her pillow at him, but he ducked. "Hey. I'll have you know I'm above average height for human women."

"Oh, really? What's that? Point eight galactic standard meters? No wonder the Mako was built so small."

She tried to put on her no-nonsense commander face, but it didn't quite work; she was too busy laughing. "We are _so_ domestic."

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_8:46 a.m._

* * *

Shepard and Garrus were drifting through the lower markets, browsing the selection of levo-cuisine—she was wearing civvies and trying to look inconspicuous, while he strode along in full C-Sec body armour with his assault rifle and handgun in plain view—when Shepard's omni-tool buzzed.

_ "Incoming voice call from Lieutenant Alenko."_

Shepard activated her earpiece. "Kaidan, hi."

"_Hello, Shepard."_ He sounded strangely hesitant. Shepard glanced at Garrus's back; he was asking a vendor about the molecular composition of his rice noodles, and seemingly hadn't noticed her take the call. "_Uh… Are you busy today?"_

"Just grocery shopping with Garrus. What do you need?"

"_Oh. Well. We're on the same station and all, so… I thought you might want to have lunch. Get some coffee. Something."_

"I was planning on catching a movie tonight, but I have some time before then. Do you have someplace in mind?"

"_Sure. Yeah. Not yet. I'll send you the coordinates."_

Shepard laughed, which caught Garrus's attention. He turned and gave her a questioning look; she tapped her wrist to indicate a voice call. "You make it sound like we're out to clear a merc base or something. Just give me a call."

"_Okay. See you later, Shepard."_

"Kaidan," Shepard explained as the line clicked off. "He wants to have lunch." She frowned. "Or possibly coffee. He wasn't very clear on that point."

"I see." Garrus visibly hesitated. He was holding a plastic shopping bag in one hand, talons hooked awkwardly around the handle to avoid ripping it, and under different circumstances Shepard might have laughed. But now she was very wary of the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice; was he about to ask…? Yes. He definitely was.

"Let's not have this conversation here." She reached out and took the shopping bag; it was obvious that he was going to tear it any minute. "I think we've bought enough. Why don't we go back to your place?"

"Sure."

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_9:22 a.m._

* * *

"You don't need to say anything," Garrus said in a rush. They were sitting at his tiny kitchen table, with two mugs between them. One of the mugs contained hot chocolate; the other, some strange concoction that smelled to Shepard like a cross between honey and menthol toothpaste. "I know it's not exactly protocol to talk about personal details with your subordinates. I'm completely okay with you not wanting to do this."

"Calm down, Garrus." Shepard took a sip of her hot chocolate, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. Inside, she was a mess of nerves. Garrus was right; she had never made a habit of sharing details of her personal life with anyone other than the people involved. Even Joker knew better than to ask, most of the time. But Garrus had proved himself an excellent sounding board so far, and maybe talking to him about her confusing state of affairs with Kaidan would help clear the matter up for herself.

Or maybe she just felt like Garrus deserved to _know._ She knew he was curious; looking into his eyes had told her that. He had invited her into his home, made her welcome, given her gifts, even shared his bed with her (in a completely platonic way)—and that was just in the last two days. Despite his hotheaded attitude, he was actually one of the best listeners she had ever encountered; he seemed attuned to her needs without her needing to express them.

Shepard had never had what most people might call a best friend. Not even on Mindoir. She had always been fairly solitary, and her casual attitude with subordinates was mainly a way to interact socially without the complicated side effects that came with getting in deep with someone. But Garrus… Garrus had changed that. Yes, he deserved to know.

"You just look really uncomfortable," he said, scrutinizing her keenly. "I don't want to be the one causing that. Only start talking if you're really okay with this."

"Garrus Vakarian, certified psychologist." Shepard smiled. "I'm not actually a basket case, you know. I'm perfectly capable of opening up."

He still seemed to hesitate, despite her best efforts. "If it were me, I might not be comfortable talking about it. So I would completely understand. Just because I'm curious doesn't mean you have to indulge me."

"Stop it. You'll make me nervous." Shepard crossed her arms and leaned back. "Okay. I don't know where to start. What do you want to know?"

He was quick off the bat, telling her that he really _had_ been thinking about this. "If you're really… Fine. The lieutenant. How long?"

Well. If he wanted to play it that way… "Not long. Just before Ilos," she said, mimicking his short-burst style of speech.

Garrus nodded, looking satisfied. "That about matches my estimations."

"Your… hang on. Estimations? You were making estimations?"

At least he looked appropriately abashed. Joker wouldn't, in this sort of situation. "I… uh. This is sort of awkward, Shepard. Turian sense of smell is moderately more powerful than humans'. So is krogan and, to a certain extent, asari. So, apart from the human crew on the Normandy…"

"You, Wrex, and Liara could _smell_ him on me," Shepard finished, horrified.

Privately, she decided that she was probably going to start showering like a madwoman whenever she was around aliens from now on. Damn convenience, her personal privacy was on the line here.

"It wasn't that bad," Garrus mumbled. If he didn't have a metal exoskeleton, Shepard was almost positive he would be blushing. "Nobody else noticed. Tali started asking what Wrex was chuckling to himself about all the time."

"I'm going to have to have a chat with him, aren't I?"

"Anyway, what I really wanted to know was…" He paused yet again, scanning her features for signs of… _something_, she wasn't sure what. Apparently he found what he was looking for, because he continued a moment later. "What changed? The two of you seem… different. I'm not familiar with human courtship rituals, Shepard. Maybe it's perfectly normal to start acting distant partway into a relationship. It isn't for turians, but like I said, humans weren't on the course material when I was in school."

Shepard shook her head. "I think turians and humans are more or less the same when it comes to… courtship. Me and Kaidan, I guess we… I don't know how to say this. We're burning out."

Garrus tipped his head to one side, clearly confused. "Burning out?"

"I knew it wasn't going to last long. I had hoped… but I think I knew."

"I don't understand, Shepard." He picked up his mug but didn't take a drink. "Enlighten me."

Shepard cleared her throat. She wasn't entirely certain how to phrase this, mainly because she didn't know exactly how she felt. The whole point of talking to Garrus about this was supposed to be clarifying her own feelings—because that was what friends did, right? They gossiped, they chatted about their love lives, they talked through problems and gave helpful advice. Oh, God, she didn't even know. Garrus was the closest she had ever come to having a normal friend, and he had _mandibles._

"We're friends, Garrus. Kaidan and me. Still very good friends, even with all of this. And I think we managed to fool ourselves into thinking we were… lovers. Or maybe it was real, and we weren't fooling ourselves, but it wasn't meant to last. Just a… phase that we were supposed to go through."

"So you aren't toying with each other," Garrus mused slowly, tapping his fingers against the rim of his cup. "You really do _care._"

"Exactly," she said, relieved that he seemed to understand. "I do care about him. I would die for him, easily. Just like I would for any member of my squad. But I don't know how to tell him that I don't think we were meant to be like _this._ It's the oldest line in the book, you know? _We can still be friends._ I don't know if he'll believe that I really mean it."

Garrus was silent for a moment. "Just don't think," he began wryly, "for a moment, that I am in any way a qualified relationship counselor. The closest I've come to a long-term relationship is a couple of flings back in the army."

"'No shortage of admirers, but I'm married to my work,'" Shepard quoted, smirking.

"Just so. Still, I think the best thing you can do is come clean. You have the rest of your life to live, after all. The Reapers are going to be hard enough to defeat—why make it harder by tangling up your personal life?"

"Spoken like a true turian."

"I'm just saying." He crossed his arms. "Life is short. If you waste time hiding the way you really feel, you're only hurting yourself in the end."

Shepard took another sip of hot chocolate. It was starting to turn cold. "You're right, of course. If I'd only known turians were so great at giving advice, I would have come sooner."

_ "Incoming voice call from Lieutenant Alenko."_

Shepard nearly jumped out of her seat. "Oh. Speak of the devil."

She felt Garrus's eyes on her as she stood up, leaving her mug on the table, and walked a few awkward steps away before answering for no reason at all.

"Good luck, Shepard."

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_2:43 p.m._

* * *

Garrus was in his kitchen, putting the finishing touches on his creation, when the intercom buzzed. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Shepard."

He went and opened the door—a habit taught to all C-Sec operatives in lieu of remotely commanding the door to open, just in case there was something nasty on the other side. Habit number two: always open the door armed.

Shepard was standing on the other side, which, in retrospect, would probably be fairly frightening for most people. But Garrus was less concerned about that and more concerned about the look on her face. She looked like she had just gone up against a krogan and lost. The expression of defeat in her eyes was… unsettling.

"I am such a pathetic failure."

"You did such a good job of hiding it, too."

It didn't work. Shepard tried to smile, but it looked painful. Garrus stepped aside and waited for her to come over the threshold, but she didn't budge.

"Really, Garrus. You should be ashamed of me. Your commanding officer doesn't even know what she wants."

Time to resort to his last-ditch superweapon.

"I have something that might cheer you up."

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_2:52 p.m._

* * *

"You made _cake._"

Garrus hovered behind her, watching her face carefully as she stared at the massive piece of confectionery looming on the kitchen table. She had no idea how he had managed it. The thing was gorgeous: luscious chocolate frosting dripping down over a sinfully moist-looking center, the sugar molecules so dense that she could almost inhale them. Two empty frosting packets lay on the table: red and black. They had clearly been used to create the picture-perfect N7 logo etched in icing on the top of the cake, the lines as crisp and neat as the ones on her armour and dog tags.

"I didn't make it," he confessed. "I bought it from a very reputable baker. But I did do the thing on top. Very carefully."

"I take back everything I said. This is the best day of my life."

"So you like it? Thank the Spirits. Here, have a piece." He picked up a gigantic knife lying on the counter and cut her the biggest slice of cake she had ever seen. He levered the heavy slab of rich chocolate calories onto a plate with a grunt and held it out to her.

"Garrus, I know I'm a biotic, but I don't think you realize just how rich this thing is. I'll gain ten pounds if I eat that whole piece."

"You'll work it off." He opened the kitchen cooling unit and produced something that was familiar to Shepard, even though she had never actually seen it before: the blue turian cake she had ordered from a special catalog for his birthday, albeit with a few pieces missing.

"It's like we're having a tea party."

"Sorry, a what?" Garrus said down opposite from her, holding a plate with a slice of his dextro-cake on it. It did look disturbingly similar to human cake, though she could only guess at the ingredients.

"Never mind. I don't even know where that came from."

"You're never boring, Shepard." He dug his talons into the top of his cake slice, scooped out a lump of frosting, and stuck the whole thing in his mouth. This time Shepard _had_ to stare.

"Garrus, that's not how you eat cake!"

He paused, looking startled. "What? Did I do something wrong?"

Shepard shook her head in mock disgust. "You barbarian. Give me some kind of utensil. One of your mini-spears, if necessary."

Garrus still looked bewildered, but he did as she ordered, going through a kitchen drawer and returning with a pair of the spikes he ate with. "Enlighten me."

It took a full five minutes to teach him how to eat his cake properly. When she was finished, Shepard felt prouder than she had in weeks—like she'd actually accomplished something noteworthy. He seemed bemused by her staring, though. "What's wrong now?"

"It's just… This is probably the strangest thing I've ever done. And that's saying a lot."

"Hmm." He looked unconvinced. "Can I ask how it went?"

It took her a moment to remember what he was talking about. "Oh. Not well."

"I gathered. Care for specifics?"

Shepard took a bite of cake, chewed slowly, and swallowed before answering. "It turns out that completely dismissing a relationship with someone is a lot easier when you aren't actually around them."

"You didn't tell him?" Was that a hint of disappointment in his voice? Or was she imagining things?

"If I had been sure, I _would have._ But seeing him, talking to him…" Shepard trailed off.

Her lunch with Kaidan was the first real "date" they had ever actually been on. It turned out that dating was generally a commodity that Alliance officers and Spectres out to save the galaxy did not usually have time for. Now that she knew what it felt like, Shepard realized that she enjoyed spending time with Kaidan. He was a respectful man, not unlike Garrus though lacking much of the banter, with interesting opinions and clear affection for her. Any ordinary person would see him as a complete dream of a romantic partner. _Shepard_ had once nursed embarrassing notions of a fairytale romance, back when they had met at the start of her service on the Normandy. Did that mean there was something wrong with her now? Was she just incapable of normal human emotion?

"I just didn't want to rule out my options," she mumbled, staring down at her cake. She didn't want to look up and meet Garrus's eyes, too fearful of what she might see in them. It was clearer than ever now that his opinion of her mattered more than anyone else's. If he saw her as weak, then it would be the truth, and she didn't know if she could handle that. "Not with the Reapers and everything. You were right. Life is short. I could be dead next month."

"That's no reason to shoehorn yourself into something you know isn't real—"

"How do you know it isn't real?" It came out sharper than she had intended—the heat in his voice had surprised her. Giving her advice was one thing, but he had no reason to feel strongly about this one way or another. "It doesn't have to be perfect. What if I end up dismissing the best thing that might ever happen to me, just because I wasn't satisfied with what I had? The Reapers aren't going to sit around, twiddling their thumbs, while I sort out my relationship problems!"

"Then take a break!" Shepard glanced up, taken aback by his tone. It wasn't the first time she had ever heard him angry, but it was the first time it had ever been directed at _her._ Arguing with a subordinate was hardly a novel experience, but this was _Garrus_, absolute paragon in his respect for her—perhaps alone among all other authority figures. "One year. Two years! Sort it out. If you live, you'll have a chance to fix whatever mistakes you made. If you die, if I die, if we _all_ die, it never mattered anyway."

"This isn't you," she said bitingly. "Garrus Vakarian is no fatalist."

"Neither are you." Garrus looked at her steadily with those bright blue eyes of his. She felt herself quite unable to look away. "If it's the end of all things, Shepard, then now's the time to do whatever you want. No matter how we work this, everything is going to change. You know that."

"I know that." Shepard felt her temper begin to simmer away. It was hard to stay angry at him when he looked at her like that. "But I can't just throw away what I have with Kaidan. Not yet."

"It isn't my business, Shepard." His eyes seemed to soften, the Garrus she knew peering through. "But I'm like you. I _do care._"


	10. The Heart Asks

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: Well, the response to the last chapter was much better than I'd been hoping for :) Thanks for all the support, guys! Thanks for the reviews, too. Keep up the good work!**

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

The Heart Asks…

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_4:50 p.m._

* * *

Garrus was putting their dishes into the automatic washing machine when he heard a strange noise from the bedroom. Shepard had disappeared into the other room after he had refused to let her help clean up, and it had been about ten minutes since she had made any noise. Now it sounded like she was playing music from her omni-tool. It sounded familiar, for some reason.

He closed the machine and went into the bedroom to see for himself. To his surprise, Shepard wasn't playing a recording at all. She was sitting on his bed with a holographic… _thing_ in front of her, composed of dozens of keys in black and white. Her eyes were closed in concentration, fingers feeling out across the holograph and pressing keys in combinations, obviously readjusting to the interface. She was wearing her typing gloves, skintight synthetic apparatuses with implants to allow physical interaction with a virtual interface.

"Shepard?"

"This is a piano," she said without opening her eyes, though her fingers faltered slightly over the keys at the sound of his voice. "I'm not very good, but… this is what it sounds like."

Garrus listened. It was clear that Shepard's playing was not perfect; he could hear the stutters in the material, the places where her fingers missed keys or fought to catch up. But he had never heard any music quite so organic-sounding. Every note was produced directly by a tap of Shepard's fingers, with nothing to fill the gaps—yet they managed to carry a tune by themselves. It was fascinating.

"I'm playing the Moonlight Sonata. It's a very famous piece. Instantly recognizable for most humans, even after all the centuries."

Garrus moved closer and cautiously sat down on the bed beside her. When she didn't react, he relaxed, watching her play more closely. At first glance, the action all seemed to be in her hands. Human fingers were incredible to watch in motion—there were so many, with the potential to move independently of each other. But then his gaze moved to her face, and he was both enthralled and disturbed by what he saw here. Previously he had thought Shepard to be composed of two entities: the commander and the organic. But now he saw in the fluttering muscles of her closed eyelids and the delicate, silent movement of her lips the possible ghost of a third Shepard, long buried by time and space, but incredibly right there on the bed beside him.

After a time, her fingers stilled and she opened her eyes. Garrus caught a flicker of surprise in their blue depths; she had expected him to still be watching her hands, not staring straight into her eyes. He looked away and spoke, subharmonics vibrant with appreciation. "It doesn't sound finished."

"It isn't. I've forgotten the rest."

Garrus reached out to touch the holographic piano, but since he wasn't wearing his gloves, his talons phased right through the virtual instrument without any resistance. Still, he imagined that he could feel the specter of Shepard's fingers still lingering on the keys. "Do you remember anything else?"

"One." She placed her hands back on the piano and began to play, a swift yet poignant melody that made Garrus think of the stars. "The Heart Asks For Pleasure First."

"Apt," he said, and was rewarded with the faintest flicker of a smile.

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_7:04 p.m._

* * *

They didn't do much for the rest of the day. Garrus sat on the bed next to Shepard, watching as she gradually recalled song after song from her youth, occasionally pulling up recordings on her omni-tool to refresh her memory. He could have watched her play forever, her fingers dancing more and more fluidly over the keys as the muscles remembered how they were supposed to move. Occasionally Garrus noticed a key depress without her touching it; when he asked, Shepard sheepishly admitted that she had developed the habit of cheating when she was a child, using her biotics to press keys that were difficult to reach with small hands. Garrus privately noted the significance of such a habit. Finely manipulating biotics to touch something as small as a key was a difficult feat; Shepard had even admitted difficulty with such tasks before. Kaidan was much better at small, versatile tasks; Shepard tended to throw things across rooms. The fact that Shepard's abilities had manifested early enough in her youth for her to develop such a habit was unusual.

Listening to the silence trail on, Garrus realized that Shepard had stopped playing. It was a strange experience, coming back to the real world—like breaking the surface of a deep ocean. "That's all," she said simply.

"You don't remember any more songs?"

"Not whole ones. Bits and pieces, here and there, but nothing that would sound nice." She dismissed the holograph with a wave of her hand and the virtual piano disappeared. Leaning down, Shepard picked up a small black box from the floor; Garrus realized that it had been projecting the holograph.

"Who writes all of these songs?" he asked.

"Lots of people. Most of the guys who wrote the classics have been dead for centuries. I knew a private on the _SSV Paris_ who composed songs all the time. Always humming, even during drills."

"Can you?"

"Hum? Yes. Compose? No." Shepard laughed and put the small black box in her pocket. "It's getting a little late. Want to order takeout and watch a movie?"

"Sure."

Shepard was on the comm, ordering dinner from a nearby restaurant, when Garrus heard the door to his apartment buzz. "Yes, who is it?" He wasn't expecting visitors, so he was surprised when he heard a familiar voice reply.

"It's Chellick. I'm here to pick up those reports you promised me."

"What?"

"Three days ago. You said you would have them on my desk the next day. You haven't been answering your email."

"I don't remember saying that."

"Well, you _did._ Do you have them or not?"

Chellick had never exactly been known for an even temper, or patience. With a sigh, Garrus left Shepard in the kitchen and went to open the front door. Chellick was standing just outside, arms crossed over his chest; he looked startled as the door opened, negating the apartment's soundproofing, and the sound of Shepard talking on the comm filled the hallway. "You… have a _human_ in there with you?"

"Come in and see for yourself." Garrus stepped aside. "I'll see if I can find those reports."

Shepard had her back turned as Garrus and his supervisor entered the kitchen; she was so absorbed in her comm call that she had not even noticed him open the door. "Yes, I can hold. Thank you." She turned around and her eyes widened at the sight of Chellick. "Inspector. It's nice to see you again."

"Commander Shepard," Chellick said, recognizing her. "The same to you." He glared at Garrus. "No one told me you were visiting the Citadel."

"It's only for a week. Christmas shore leave."

"Ah." Chellick gave Garrus a meaningful look. Garrus shifted uncomfortably; he hadn't told Chellick exactly why he was going on leave, but the inspector was fairly intelligent and had obviously put two and two together. "I trust you have appropriate accommodations? Rooms on the Citadel can be tight at this time of year."

"I've been staying with Garrus," Shepard said casually, filling one of Garrus's bowls with water and taking a sip. She had started doing that the day before, since Garrus's cups were designed for turians and apparently awkward for human mouths.

Chellick looked startled. "Is that… so. Really." His eyes darted toward Garrus, who suppressed a wince. Clearly Shepard did not understand the facets of turian culture relevant to the situation. If it was taboo for commanding officers to visit their subordinates in their private homes, it was just about unheard of for them to stay there. Turians had very clear lines separating work and private life, and the division between military life and home leave was a prime example of that.

Garrus had been more than willing to make an exception, since this was Shepard and he would never dream of making her feel unwanted, after everything she had done for him. Chellick, however, clearly did not understand.

"I'll go and find those reports."

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_7:33 p.m._

* * *

What was Garrus _doing?_

Like everyone else at C-Sec, Chellick had heard the rumours. Humans and asari in particular were fond of idle gossip, and with more and more of the former joining C-Sec's ranks, information travelled so quickly through headquarters that Chellick might have been concerned if most of it hadn't been so trivial. Whispers about Garrus, however, caught his attention. Even with his attitude problem and tendency to turn forms in late or not at all, Garrus was a valuable officer, with an unrivaled sense of duty and the skills to match. Chellick kept an eye on the most promising members of his division, and Garrus was certainly one of them.

Which was why the rumours that Garrus's relationship with Commander Shepard, the human Spectre whose ship he had served on for almost a year, was more than professional were so concerning. Chellick didn't pry into his officers' personal affairs. But the idea that one of his junior officers might be on close personal terms with humanity's best and brightest was enough to give him pause.

Chellick liked to think that he knew the commander. She had helped him with that little affair involving Rita and the arms dealer, and they had kept in occasional contact since. Recently, she had conspired with him to acquire a _cake_ of all things for Garrus's birthday. She seemed like a respectable human, fully capable of holding her own, and a match for any turian.

But he still had no idea what Garrus was doing. Inviting a commanding officer into his home? A _human_ commanding officer, at that? It wasn't exactly unheard of, but it was certainly not protocol. Which begged the question of why Garrus had done it.

"Why don't you stay for dinner?" Shepard asked, startling Chellick out of his thoughts. Her blue eyes were wide and seemingly sincere. "We're ordering takeout."

"I…" Chellick hesitated, but he knew there was only one answer he could give. There were mountains of paper on his desk waiting to be processed, and he knew at least seven urgent messages would be waiting at his terminal by the time he returned. "I really should get back to the office. A lot of my human officers are on leave, so I've got a lot of work to do."

"An hour isn't going to make a difference." Garrus appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of paper. Chellick held out his hand, but Garrus just studied him critically. "You look like you haven't eaten a proper meal for a week."

"It won't take long," Shepard chimed in. "Then you can get back to work."

It was amazing, the way they acted around each other. Shepard didn't react with so much as a twitch to the sound of Garrus's voice, and vice versa; it was like they were so in tune that anything one said was simply an extension of the other's thoughts. It was obvious that the months they had spent on the battlefield together had programmed a sort of synchronism into their movements. When Garrus put his hand on the table, Shepard unconsciously leaned toward him; when she reached up to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, Garrus mirrored the movement a moment later, scratching the edge of his fringe. Chellick wished he could have seen them in action; they must be terrifying on the battlefield. If only he could use them as a model for C-Sec's new human-turian partner program.

Whoever was on the other end of Shepard's line must have picked up the hold, because Shepard gave a small jump and began to speak. "Yes, hang on, let me just ask what he wants to order…"

"Here, let me have the comm." Garrus took the blue receiver from Shepard's hand and touched it to his earpiece, syncing up the audio. "I'm ordering for two turians…"

"Hold on, I haven't said yes yet," Chellick protested, but Garrus ignored him and continued to order.

"We've decided for you," Shepard said with an air of finality. "Spectre authority."

"I thought you said that was only for emergencies," Garrus muttered.

"You used it to get Christmas leave," she shot back. "So don't judge."

Chellick sat down at the kitchen table. He knew when he was beaten.

* * *

**December 27th, 2183**

_9:01 p.m._

* * *

"So _then…_" Garrus leaned across the table, sloshing a few drops over the rim of his cup. "Shepard plugs the incendiary upgrade into her ammo slot, charges in and _shotguns_ the holy _hell_ out of these two mercenaries. And Wrex just stands there with his mouth hanging open, and when she's done, he goes…"

"_'Didn't think you could fit a quad that size under there!'"_ Shepard crowed, bumping against Garrus's shoulder.

Chellick choked on his brandy. After a few minutes of Garrus pounding him on the back, he managed to clear his airway and wheezed, "I thought that krogan was crazy when they brought him in, but I never would have guessed…"

"But that's not even the best part," Garrus said. "Shepard refused to give the incendiary back. Said she'd won it fair and square. Wrex tried to win it back in a game of cards, but Shepard won. With my help, of course."

"You taught me how to cheat," Shepard said dryly.

"Watching Wrex slaughter you in every single game was getting _sad,_ Shepard," insisted Garrus, taking a draft of his stout. "I acted out of charity."

Chellick laughed again. It was impossible not to; he hadn't drunk very much, compared to the other two, but the alcohol had loosened him up enough to enjoy their company. Seeing Shepard in Garrus's home no longer seemed quite so strange; she seemed to _belong_ there somehow, despite her soft pink skin and human face. In spite of his time at C-Sec, Chellick had never really grown used to the sight of humans and turians next to each other; his father and mother had both fought in the Relay 314 Incident, and he had grown up putting his finger on photos of humans and identifying them as _possible threat_. Together, though, Garrus and Shepard didn't _look_ like a turian and a human. They just looked like comrades… and friends.

"I bought him another one," Shepard said. "Felt sorry for him. He loved that upgrade."

"You took it off a dead slaver's corpse," Garrus corrected her.

"Right. Same thing. Anyway, I put it in his gun when he wasn't looking. Pretty hard to do. He hardly ever put down his weapons."

"I'll admit it," Chellick said. "I'm impressed. I've never managed to successfully separate a krogan from his weapons without getting caught."

"It helps when the krogan trusts you," Garrus advised in a confidential tone. "Otherwise they tend to get angry and charge."

Chellick laughed, and his omni-tool buzzed. He looked down, startled by the sound, and realized that it was already past nine o'clock. He hadn't meant to be out of the office for more than thirty minutes, let alone _two hours._ "I really have to get going," he said reluctantly, standing up. It was a surprise to realize that he had actually enjoyed himself. Maybe Garrus was right, and he did need to get out more often.

"Alcohol's almost out, anyway," Shepard said with a frown, turning her empty glass upside down. "Nice catching up, Chellick. Don't work too hard."

Garrus snorted. "No use telling him that, Shepard. He's as turian as they come." He reached around Shepard's shoulders to grab her empty glass, but seemed to forget what he was doing halfway through and just left his arm there, slung around her back. Neither of them seemed to notice or care, but Chellick's eyes lingered.

"Take care, Garrus. Shepard."

He made his exit, wondering if either of them would notice the real meaning in his farewell. If the sound of their laughter echoing from the kitchen behind him was any clue, they had no idea.


	11. Plead the Sixth

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: Oh my gosh, I am so behind on replying to reviews. Sorry about that, guys! If you get a random PM that doesn't seem to make any sense, it's probably me replying to a review you left on this story a week ago that I haven't gotten back to yet. Not that I'm complaining or anything-replying to reviews is one of my favourite things to do. You guys rock :)**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Plead the Sixth

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_7:30 a.m._

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The first thing Garrus was aware of was a pounding headache. A whimper of pain escaped his throat without his consent, and he tried to lie still and not move as much as possible. "Deactivate," he whispered, and the beeping shut off, replaced by blessed silence.

There was something warm and heavy on his chest. Garrus cracked an eyelid and was greeted by… red. The thing on his chest twitched and something soft tickled his nose. It took him a moment to identify it as hair. Human. There was a human lying on top of him. Not just any human. Shepard.

Okay. So… this wasn't too far out of the ordinary. They were sharing a bed, after all. It was only natural that Shepard might roll around in her sleep. There was one problem with that theory, though. They weren't actually on his bed. As far as he could tell, they were on the too-short couch in his den, and his legs were hanging off the end, judging by the ache in his knees.

_Good start, Vakarian. Now how did you get here?_

Headache. Thick tongue. Fuzzy throat. This was clearly a hangover—another of those things that translated devastatingly well between species. Garrus remembered drinking with Shepard and Chellick the night before, but surely they hadn't gotten _that_ drunk. In fact, they had run out of alcohol shortly after Chellick had left; he remembered that, too. But after that… nothing.

The pounding in his temples was getting worse, not better. With a groan of effort, Garrus began the painfully slow process of shifting his weight out from under Shepard without waking her up. Fortunately, she was so deeply asleep that he didn't think anything less than a horde of rampaging krogan would wake her up. Apparently a drunk Shepard slept like the dead. Good information for the future.

He ended up having to lift her in his arms, slip off the couch, and lay her down again as gently as possible. It wasn't too difficult; without armour, Shepard's fragile human body was a very light burden. She was heavier than the average human female, of course, since muscle weighed more than fat, but still no match for a turian. For a few moments, Garrus stood there looking down at her. He couldn't help but think back to the last time he had seen her looking this helpless and vulnerable—all those months ago in the Mako, when she had dozed off on his shoulder. It stirred up a ridiculous impulse in him to stay there and stand guard over her until she woke. Ancient territorial instinct towards females, no doubt.

The artificial sunlight streaming in through the wall-length den window wreathed Shepard's body in a warm glow, utterly alien to Garrus, who knew his commander primarily as a creature of smoky battlefields and dimly lit cargo bays. Her hair had never looked quite so red before, or her skin quite so pale. The lines of her face were less defined than usual, softened by sunlight. Garrus noticed that her slightly parted lips were chapped and the skin beneath her eyes darker than the rest. He seemed to recall from one of Johannes's impromptu lessons on human biology that that was a sign of stress. Unsurprising, really.

His headache had faded somewhat as he stood there, but it returned in full force as soon as he moved toward the door. Clamping his hands to his temples, he stumbled into the bathroom and opened the cabinet above the sink. It was practically overflowing with the hangover medication he had stolen from the first-aid cabinet at work. Garrus emptied four universal pills into his palm, took two dry, and set the other two down with a glass of water on the coffee table.

Then he stood and looked for a little longer while he waited for the medication to kick in. His eyes were drawn to her, somehow. He didn't know if he had a name for what she meant to him—_was_ there even a name? All he knew was that somehow, in the past year of knowing her, Shepard had come to mean… _everything._ It wasn't an uncommon reaction; she had a similar effect on many people she came across, at least from what she had observed. And that, too, was disconcerting in a way. Maybe she was important to him, but what did _he_ mean to _her?_ A woman like Shepard, with so many people depending on her, so many allies and enemies and friends… it would be easy to forget just one turian, in the mess of things.

Which only made what he was planning to do all the more important. Garrus knew from experience how much trouble the Normandy got into on a regular basis. He also knew—_somehow_, with some kind of instinctual feeling in his gut—that he had to keep Shepard safe. Knowing that she was in danger and he wasn't there felt wrong. He had signed over his bullets to Shepard's cause when the hunt for Saren had begun. Now it was time to sign _himself_ over—body and soul. The concept of a krogan battlemaster was not in any way foreign to turian culture; when turians claimed a commander, the decision carried much more weight than platoon assignments.

His omni-tool buzzed. Garrus glanced down; Chellick had sent him a prerecorded voice message. Reluctant to disturb Shepard, he went into the kitchen and played the sound back while he poured himself some water.

"_Garrus, there's a problem with the reports you gave me. I need you to come into the office. It shouldn't take long—a few hours at most. You'll be compensated for the overtime if necessary. Take some painkillers and get over here as soon as you can."_

Garrus frowned. Not because he was getting called into the office—that was a fairly regular occurrence for off-duty officers. But because Chellick had mentioned painkillers. He hadn't been drunk enough by the time Chellick left to warrant a hangover severe enough to require painkillers. A sudden feeling of dread lanced into his gut, and he opened up his outgoing message terminal.

10:32 p.m. to Shepard. _Hi._

10:37 p.m. to Shepard. _I know we're only five feet apart._

10:46 p.m. to Shepard. _Just like old times._

10:52 p.m. to Shepard. _That sounds fantastic. Meet you at the door._

11:08 p.m. to Shepard. _I'm in the whiskey aisle. Find me_

11:24 p.m. to Shepard. _Catch me if you can_

12:02 a.m. to Chellick. _If you see somebody with blue paint on the security vids, it wasn't me._

12:13 a.m. to Chellick. _Seriously, I plead the Sixth._

12:44 a.m. to Shepard. _I can't find you. Do you know how to get to the apartment?_

12:48 a.m. to Shepard. _Your spelling is terrible when you're drunk._

Garrus put his head in his hands. He was never going to live this down.

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_9:01 a.m._

* * *

Waking up with a hangover was not exactly _unusual_ for Shepard, but it was certainly out of the ordinary. She indulged in alcohol on a fairly regular basis, but rarely drank to get drunk, and never did so alone. Ashley had always refused to join in whenever the Normandy's crew went out for drinks, claiming that alcoholism ran in her family on her mother's side and she didn't want to take the risk, but Shepard had no such problems. She was Irish and German stock, after all.

Right now, she didn't even have a particularly _bad_ hangover. Shepard had learned to classify her hangovers into three categories: fuzzy, sleepy, and puking. This hangover was the sleepy kind. She could tell without opening her eyes that she had slept longer than usual, and she still felt the weight of exhaustion. Moving was going to be a challenge, but at least she wouldn't start vomiting.

More concerning was the fact that she couldn't remember _how_ she had gotten drunk. Dinner with Garrus and Chellick had gotten her tipsy at best. They must have drunk more after Chellick left.

Garrus probably knew what had happened. With a sigh, Shepard opened her eyes, fully intending to roll over and ask him. Then she realized that she wasn't in his bed; she was lying on the couch in his den, alone. Huh. How had that happened?

At least she was still fully clothed… apart from her socks, which had mysteriously vanished. Shepard sat up and took stock of the situation. She could tell that the apartment was empty; years of experience in combat situations had taught her how to sense when someone was nearby. Garrus had gone out. There was a glass of water and two blue pills on a napkin sitting on the table next to the sofa. Shepard scanned the pills with her omni-tool: standard anti-nausea and painkillers. She wasn't feeling bad enough to really need them, but she took one anyway. Thoughtful of Garrus to leave them out for her.

She showered and changed her clothes before heading out into the kitchen. A blinking datapad awaited her on the kitchen table. _Shepard: I have to go into the office for a bit. Should be back by noon. Levo food is in the cooling unit. –Garrus._

There was a paper bag in the cooling unit; upon opening it, Shepard discovered a freshly baked croissant and a carton of orange juice. Garrus had thought of everything, it seemed.

It struck her that she had never actually seen Garrus at work. The closest she had come was at the very beginning of her investigation into Saren, when she'd walked in on him arguing with Executor Pallin. She didn't know what his office looked like, or how much paperwork he really had to do, or who his coworkers were. It was strange, considering that they had spent the past three days in constant company, that she would miss him when he went to work for a few hours, but she did. As silly as it was, she wanted to go and visit him.

_Well, why not?_ she reasoned. _I've walked in and out of C-Sec HQ dozens of times. Maybe I can even help out with whatever he needs to get done._

She also had questions to ask him. Questions about exactly how much alcohol they had consumed the night before, how she'd ended up on the couch, and why there were several shallow gashes on her palm and fingers—like she'd been holding hands with someone with very sharp claws. Yeah, she definitely needed some kind of explanation for that one.

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_10:46 a.m._

* * *

"The facts don't match up," Chellick said again, putting a talon on the top of the paper stack. "Either one of the witnesses was lying, or they both were, or you didn't record their statements correctly—"

"I've double-checked against the audio record," Garrus interrupted, irritated by the insinuation that he hadn't done his job correctly. That was first-year stuff, a rookie mistake. "I know I've gotten everything down just as they said it. That was what you told me to do."

"Corrin says that the cash drop was on Wednesday and the goods were supposed to be there yesterday morning. Fortunato says the goods were supposed to be there last night and the cash drop was somewhere else entirely. I ordered my men at five o'clock this morning to raid a warehouse full of nonexistent black market items, Garrus. Items your report said would be there."

Garrus clenched his fists but kept his voice level with the ease of long practice. "My instructions were to get the statements. You didn't ask me to cross-check the facts."

"On any other day you would have done it without being asked, Garrus. You and I both know that. But you've been… distracted lately."

"Don't." Garrus raised his head and looked Chellick directly in the eyes. His subharmonics were just barely on the near side of hostile, and he knew the other turian heard it. "Don't bring Shepard into this."

Chellick sighed. "I wasn't talking about Shepard. I was talking about the last year in general. You've only been back three weeks. In many ways, you've shown considerable improvement. I have nothing but good things to say about Shepard in that regard; she's certainly been a favorable influence on you. Your focus is the only problem. Like you're always distracted by bigger things."

_What, like the Reapers?_ He was dying to say it. Shepard would have said it. But she could get away with saying things like that; she was a Spectre, the savior of the Citadel. Chellick probably wouldn't even know what he was talking about. Garrus didn't know just how far down the Council's whitewashing campaign had gone. Would the average person on the Citadel recognize the word _Reaper?_

"Whatever you may think to the contrary, Garrus, the work we do here at C-Sec is important. Very important." Chellick leaned forward across the desk. "Maybe you were happier on the frontlines, but what goes on backstage is just as vital. We're saving lives here."

"Not enough," Garrus muttered. "Drug dealers and smugglers aren't the real threat. The Rea—the geth are."

Chellick blinked slowly, obviously catching what Garrus had been about to say, and opened his mouth to speak; then his eyes focused on something over Garrus's shoulder, and his mandibles snapped shut with surprise. "Commander."

Garrus twisted around in his seat. In the doorway of Chellick's office stood Shepard, looking uncertain. No, that wasn't right—Shepard never looked uncertain. Her arms were crossed and her stance firm, as always. But there was a slight tilt to her chin that told Garrus something her body wasn't saying. "I didn't mean to intrude. The door was open, and I… Bad timing?"

"Of course not," sighed Chellick, waving her toward the desk. "Is there something you need?"

Shepard moved closer, her armour clanking slightly with the movement. She had left off the civvies in favor of something Garrus was more familiar with: full Alliance battle dress, black from head to toe with the red N7 insignia on the right shoulder. She wasn't armed as heavily as usual, with just one sidearm at her waist and a shotgun slung across the small of her back. Garrus was still feeling the effects of his hangover, even after the medication, but Shepard looked none the worse for wear. "I couldn't help but overhear part of the conversation. Can I be of assistance?"

That was Shepard all over, mused Garrus. Always injecting herself into a sticky situation with the smooth resolve of someone who knew that they were fully capable of handling anything that was thrown at them. He looked at Chellick, wondering what the other turian's response would be. Chellick had accepted Shepard's help before, but this was a slightly different situation.

"There are some inconsistencies in the report Garrus turned in last night," Chellick said wearily. "Nothing warranting the attention of a Spectre."

Shepard crossed her arms again and shifted her weight to one hip. "But it's still important enough to call in an off-duty officer?"

"It's not a problem, Shepard," Garrus hastened to reply. "I was on the station anyway, and…"

Chellick cut him off. "Actually, Commander, we were just discussing Garrus's… motivation of late."

Garrus looked at him sharply, unsure where he was going with this. Why tell that to _Shepard,_ of all people? As far as Chellick was concerned, Shepard had no pull on Garrus anymore. He had left her crew… for now, at least.

Shepard lifted her chin, voice freezing over. "Garrus is perfectly capable, as I should know. I've never seen any issues with his _motivation._"

Garrus opened his mouth to say something, perhaps that he was _right there_, but Shepard waved her hand at him, dismissing him. He would have been offended if he hadn't been very familiar with this side of her; the Shepard who didn't take no for an answer when she was on the warpath. "If you think any problems have developed while Garrus was under my command, perhaps you should take that up with _me_, Chellick. The last time I checked, the turian hierarchy is based on the responsibility of the _superior_, not the subordinate."

The room felt like an icebox by the time she had finished. Garrus looked uneasily at Chellick, feeling like a ball being bounced between two walls. "Shepard, you haven't done anything wrong," he said. "I don't think you _could_ do anything wrong if you tried. Chellick is just—"

"Very well," Chellick interrupted, making Garrus glare at him. He was _tired_ of people cutting him off. It was all right when Shepard did it, but still. "Perhaps you can be of assistance, Commander, since you seem to be interested. I was just about to ask Garrus to conduct another interview with Mr. Fortunato, one of our witnesses. I'm sure Mr. Fortunato would be much more _amiable_ if you were to accompany him."

More amiable, indeed. Garrus glanced at Shepard's shotgun and snorted.

Shepard smiled. It was a frightening sight, in some ways. "I would be happy to lend my support, of course. I can file a full report on Garrus's performance."

"A Spectre's formal report would indeed carry weight," agreed Chellick. "It would be more than sufficient to deter any ideas among the high administration that his motivation is… slipping."

Shepard extended her hand, blue eyes bright. "I'm glad we could come to an agreement."

"Do I get any say in this?" Garrus asked sourly.

He was completely ignored. Which, in a way, was an answer in itself.


	12. Someone Like You

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: I think I've finally caught up in replying to reviews! Ready for some more :) This chapter is a little action-y, and the next couple are much more so. Also, warning: heavy Paragon thinking in the next few chapters. If that's not your thing, or if you lean more toward the Renegade side of things, just be warned...**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Someone Like You

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_11:07 a.m._

* * *

The first thing Garrus did after he and Shepard walked out of the office together was turn on her. "Shepard, you didn't have to do that. Citadel Security can't just requisition a Spectre whenever they like. You're supposed to be on shore leave."

"I don't mind," she said, surprised by his response. "Actually, I thought it might be fun."

He stared at her for a few moments without speaking. Shepard thought she recognized the signs that she had stumped him again; that slow blink of confusion was a familiar gesture to her by now. "Fun?"

"You know. We've worked together, but it's always been on my terms. I'd like to see how you operate in C-Sec."

Garrus snorted. "You won't be impressed. There's a lot more bureaucracy than what you're used to. We can't just grab a suspect and rough them up, or shove a gun in their faces to make them talk. And you need a _search warrant_ to open somebody's door. Sometimes it seems like we're just making life harder for the officers, not the criminals."

"It'll be an exercise in patience."

"It's your call, Shepard." Damn, how many times had she heard that sentence out of his mouth? "I'm just warning you that this might not be what you're expecting."

"I'm not expecting anything," she said truthfully. "But I don't have anything better to do, and if you have to be here anyway…"

"Nothing better to do?" Garrus's mandibles twitched. "You're on shore leave. On the _Citadel. _You could visit the shops, have tea with Anderson, play golf, flick adhesive bands at diplomats…"

"I'd rather be with you." Shepard smiled. "Although that last one sounds like fun. We should try that later."

She managed to elicit a chuckle from him, though he was clearly trying to stay professional. It satisfied her immensely that she could amuse him, even when he was in this sort of mood. "The asari diplomats take it in good fun, and the elcor generally don't even feel it, but none of the volus have a sense of humor. Just a friendly warning."

The mental image of an extremely bored Garrus flicking adhesive strips at an irate volus diplomat hit Shepard like a charging krogan, and she snorted out a laugh. The loud, annoyed sigh from within Chellick's office was icing on the cake.

"We should get going," Garrus said, putting a heavy hand on Shepard's shoulder. He sounded serious, but she could see the sparkle in his eyes. "Fortunato's not going to wait around while we crack jokes in the hallway."

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_11:42 a.m._

* * *

"Jerry Fortunato. Retired illegal arms dealer. Acquitted of all charges and turned mole for C-Sec ten years ago. He isn't active in the business anymore, but he still keeps up with his old contacts. He's cut us in on a lot of important deals. Not too many, of course, or he'd blow his cover, but enough to make it count."

Shepard nodded. They were sitting in a private shuttle soaring toward the seedy corner of the Wards where the suspect's home was located. Garrus had switched out his C-Sec uniform for a more generic hardsuit; if Fortunato was seen by his other contacts being visited by an officer, his credibility in the underworld would be shot. So would he, probably. Shepard, on the other hand, had remained in her armor, though she'd rigged up a temporary holo-patch to cover the N7 insignia—it was a little too distinctive for this mission.

"Now you're worried he's keeping back valuable information," she said.

"Exactly. Usually, in this kind of situation, the mole would send us all the information he has, and C-Sec would decide which tips to act on. But part of the deal with Fortunato was that _he_ pick which tips to give us, and which to hold back. He threatened to disappear forever unless we agreed. He has enough pull in the underworld to do it, too."

Shepard's lip twisted. "Scum."

"I don't like working with him," Garrus admitted. "But it's a necessary evil."

"You think he lied this time?"

"Either him or Corrin, the other informant." Garrus pulled up a picture on his omni-tool and leaned over to show Shepard. Corrin was a salarian in his early twenties, almost middle-aged by salarian standards. His large pitch-black eyes looked dolefully out from the orange screen; his skin was a blend of gray and pale blue, and his horns curved so close together above his head that they nearly joined. "Or possibly both. Anyway, the goods aren't there. Someone might have gotten wind of the tip-off and held them back, or maybe both of the informants were lying."

"That's a lot of _mights_ and _maybes._" Shepard leaned back in her seat, eyes fixed on the holo-projection of Corrin. "C-Sec doesn't have any firmer leads than these two?"

"Unfortunately, no. I wasn't actually a part of the initial investigation. I was just assigned to get the formal written reports from Corrin and Fortunato." Garrus's subharmonics turned sour. "It wasn't pleasant. Fortunato mocked me at every chance he got, the cocky bastard, and Corrin… well… it was like putting a vid on fast-forward."

Shepard cracked her knuckles, smiling grimly. "Let's see Fortunato get mouthy with a Spectre standing next to you."

Garrus laughed. "I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_12:13 p.m._

* * *

"Keep your guns ready," warned Garrus as they walked down the alley toward the Thirty Days Hotel. Fortunato had made the establishment his personal lair for the past six months, buying it out from the owners for the next year. The man was certainly not lacking for money; his continued income from investments in the black market, as well as a small sum from C-Sec for each successful hit they made on his advice, ensured that. "Fortunato can be unpredictable."

Shepard shot him an amused glance. They were walking side by side, which felt strange to Garrus. He was used to always trailing two steps behind, letting Shepard take the lead while he kept an eye on their surroundings. Their usual formation didn't make sense in the context of this mission, though. Garrus was the officer in command of the assignment, though of course Shepard wasn't following his orders. "I know how this works, Garrus. No need to remind me."

"Sorry. Force of habit. You'd be surprised how many rookies I get saddled with for this sort of assignment." Garrus knew from experience that Shepard could have her shotgun assembled and ready to fire in less than three seconds, and snatch a sidearm from her hip as fast as Garrus could blink. He didn't need to remind her what to do. But he wasn't exactly used to this, leading Shepard around instead of vice versa. It was a little unsettling.

The Thirty Days Hotel hardly deserved the name; it was more of a glorified version of one of the hourly-rate motels in other parts of the Wards. Garrus had been there a couple of times before Fortunato had moved in; the owners used to boast that the longest anyone had stayed was thirty days. Apparently the accommodations were ghastly and the neighborhood highly suspect, but the prices were some of the cheapest on the Wards. Things had changed since Fortunato moved in, though. When Garrus pressed the buzzer next to the corroded steel door, a tiny, armoured security mech detached from a hub above the door and circled him and Shepard, scanning them and submitting the results to a network inside. While Garrus waited for a reply, he glanced around the hotel's front to make sure nothing had changed since his last visit. The walls on either side of the front door were still covered in graffiti, the flickering holo-sign above the hotel's name still read _NO VACANCY_, and the place still smelled like a den of diseased varren.

"Access denied," intoned the mech, folding itself back into the hub while Garrus stared.

"Fortunato," he said in tightly controlled tones. Next to him, Shepard shifted her weight to one hip and glared at the door. Garrus was suddenly very glad that she hadn't brought a rocket launcher or heavy weapon of any kind. "It's me, Garrus Vakarian. I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need to talk to you."

There was no response. Garrus pressed the buzzer again, but nothing happened. The security mech didn't even bother to scan them.

"Now what?" asked Shepard.

"I know he's in," Garrus said. "The mech would have said if he wasn't. So… either he's denying us for some reason, or he can't open the door."

Shepard cleared her throat, looking straight at the small visible security lens above the door. "Mr. Fortunato, if you can hear me, I would advise you to let us in. It isn't generally a smart move to bar access to a Council Spectre. I am legally authorized to break in if necessary."

There was still no response. Garrus frowned. "He should have replied to that. Fortunato's not stupid enough to cross a Spectre."

"Looks like we either have an uncooperative suspect on our hands, or the assignment just got a lot more complicated." Shepard coolly drew the pistol from her hip and fired two rounds into the mech hub above the door. Sparks flew and the hidden mech gave a grating squawk of abused electronics before sputtering into synthetic death.

"Look out," warned Garrus, but Shepard had already seen the two small, unshielded turrets emerging from the ground on either side of the door. One well-placed shot from her pistol took out the turret on the right before it could fully assemble itself; Garrus keyed a quick code into his omni-tool and shut the other one down remotely. Child's play.

"This Fortunato doesn't have very sophisticated security," Shepard said wryly. "I've seen more advanced stuff in nightclubs. Why don't you get to work on that door?"

Garrus obligingly stepped forward and pulled up the hacking software on his omni-tool. "I'm glad you're here, Shepard. Otherwise I would be drowning in red tape right about now."

Shepard smiled. "Spectres don't need search warrants."

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_12:22 p.m._

* * *

"Dead," announced Shepard, toeing the body on the floor with her boot. Garrus noticed that she didn't sound particularly sorry about the fact. That was his Shepard, through and through—no pity for the wicked. "Better run a DNA check, make sure it's really him."

"Already on it." Garrus knelt down beside the body. They had found Fortunato sprawled on the floor behind the bar in the hotel lounge, wearing an expensive suit riddled with bullet marks. The human's face was mostly intact, though a stray projectile had shattered one cheekbone and taken off most of his left ear. Red blood stained the floor in splotches around the body. Garrus had never liked that color—bright, startling crimson, so utterly alien. The only place it looked right was on Shepard's hair. "DNA checks clean. It's him."

"He hasn't been dead long," Shepard said. "The blood's hardly dry."

"I'll hack into the security footage. Fortunato's paranoid—doesn't keep cameras inside the hotel. But I can check who's been in and out in the past few hours."

"You do that. I'll go look around the rest of the place."

"Wait." Garrus touched her shoulder. "Let me finish here and I'll come with you."

She smirked, shrugging away from him. "There's nobody here, Garrus. My thermal scans are only picking up us. Even if there were, don't you think I could handle myself?"

Garrus eyed the shotgun at her waist. "Point taken."

He focused on the security console, only slightly distracted by the sound of Shepard moving around in the other rooms. Once he was finished, he sent off a quick message to Chellick, telling him what had happened. Then he stepped over Fortunato's body and went to rejoin Shepard. He found her going through the dresser in room 12; she barely stirred when he entered the room, able to easily recognize his presence.

"Only four people have entered or left this place in the past day," he told her. "Us, a turian, and an asari. I recognized the turian; he's one of Fortunato's business partners. Legitimate, or as much as you can be in this part of the Wards. I can't think of any reason why he'd want Fortunato dead."

"And the asari?" Shepard asked without turning around.

"Kept her face turned away from the camera. She obviously knew it was there, but she was inconspicuous about it. Didn't want to draw attention. Maybe she didn't expect anyone to find the body until it was too late to tell exactly when he'd been killed."

"Can we track her?"

"The mech scans only lead to an empty personnel file. Enough to check out without arousing Fortunato's suspicions, but nothing that would help us find her."

"Let me see."

Garrus led Shepard back to the security console and brought up a still of the asari on the screen. She was fairly nondescript, not wearing armour of any kind or even visibly armed. Her skin was a light shade of violet and her scalp had been parted into neat, crisp ridges. Shepard made a satisfied noise as soon as she saw her.

"I thought so. Look at this." She handed Garrus a small, framed holo. Peering down at the image, Garrus realized that it was a shoulders-and-up view of the same asari, at least judging by the skin tone and scalp ridges. "I found it in the room where Fortunato's been sleeping. Coincidence?"

"He knew her, then. Personally, most likely."

Garrus nodded in agreement. "This might be connected to our case, or it might not. But I still think we should pursue it."

"It's your call, Garrus."

He looked at her sharply, only to be greeted by a wide grin. She was enjoying this, then, turning his own phrase back on him. "Very funny, Commander. I say we go after her."

Her smile disappeared. "What happened to calling me Shepard?"

"Sorry, it was an accident." It honestly had been; absorbed in the familiar rush of a mission, he had fallen back into his old habit of addressing her by rank. "You can call me Officer Vakarian, if you'd like."

"I'll consider it," she said, completely straight-faced. "Can we track her?"

Garrus glanced down at the framed holo in his hand. "Now that we have her face, we can use the scans from security cameras to track her. Just give me a minute." He submitted the image to his omni-tool for scanning and called up a remote link to C-Sec's security network, feeding in points of reference and checking for matches. It took about five minutes for the program to search all security camera footage from this arm of the Wards in the past day. Shepard stood next to him and played with his gauntlet latch while they waited.

"Got her," Garrus announced as his omni-tool pinged. "Last appearance—twenty minutes ago, entering a club called Nightcrawler. Hold on, running a background check. Seedy place, known for questionable drinks and _very_ scantily dressed dancers. About ten minutes away by shuttle."

"Let's go, then." Shepard took back the holo and slipped it into her pocket before checking the vectors on both her guns. When she was finished, she slotted them back into their holsters and set off for the door with a long, confident stride. "Wonder if she works there."

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_12:38 p.m._

* * *

"You're enjoying this," Garrus observed inside the shuttle.

"I missed this," Shepard said simply. "Working with someone I trust. No galaxy-wide threats, just a simple criminal."

Garrus made a small sound of disbelief. "I would have expected you to be bored."

"With you here? Fat chance." She leaned back in her seat, looking at him lazily through half-lidded eyes. The inside of the shuttle was warm and the seats comfortable, a far cry from the cramped interior of the Mako. She felt more relaxed and yet more alive than she had in a long time. "Seriously, though. I never asked to save the galaxy. I think I preferred it when someone else was calling the shots."

"You never complained before," Garrus said doubtfully.

"I know. And it's not because I was suffering in silence, either, so don't think I'm a martyr or anything. I'll never regret doing my duty. But being here, with you…" She cupped her cheek in one hand and looked at him. His blue eyes were bright and he was leaning forward slightly, waiting for her answer. The face that had once intrigued her with its alien lines was now clearer in her memory than the face of her own brother. "It's starting to make me understand why civilians don't want to be soldiers. How it might be easier to just… _be._ Do things for fun, with people you care about." She laughed, a little sad. "It sounds selfish. But when this is over, if it's _ever_ over… I think I want to come back here. Maybe… maybe even join you on more of these missions."

Something changed in his eyes, but she couldn't tell what it was. Interpreting the emotions of humans was difficult enough without the interspecies barrier getting in the way. "That doesn't sound selfish, Shepard. But somehow I think the galaxy will always need someone like you."

_And I will always need someone like you._

"We'll see," she said simply.


	13. Guilty Pleasure

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: So, AP tests are this week, and that means lots and lots of studying for me. There won't be any updates until Friday or Saturday, I'm afraid. That said, enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

Guilty Pleasure

* * *

**December 28th**, **2183**

_12:59 p.m._

* * *

The neighborhood around Nightcrawler was even worse than the Thirty Days Hotel slums. Shepard had never seen such rampant and obvious poverty on the Citadel before. She didn't have much occasion to visit the less affluent areas; most of her business on the station was conducted either on the Presidium or in the markets. She had never really thought about what life must be like for a vast number of people living on the Citadel. Glancing at Garrus, who looked completely unfazed by the squalor around them, she realized that he must see this sort of thing all the time.

Shepard had never known poverty firsthand. Colonists on a first-wave world like Mindoir tended not to adhere to ideas of class much; their incomes were all roughly the same, and they were all doing about the same thing—trying to make a new life on a new planet. Shepard supposed she had never been poor, since her family had never wanted for anything; but it wasn't as if she had attended expensive private school or owned seventeen pairs of shoes, either. Now, though, looking around at the ramshackle houses built from scrap metal and the children of all races who squatted in the dust, looking up with curious eyes as Shepard and Garrus passed by, she was forced to confront something she had never really thought about.

"You look disturbed," Garrus commented. Shepard looked at him sharply; he had gotten better at detecting human emotions, it seemed.

"A little," she admitted. "I haven't been anywhere this poor in a long time."

"A lot of people don't expect to find these conditions on the Citadel. It isn't as bad as, say, Omega. But there is a lot of poverty."

"And the Council doesn't do anything? There are so many things they could do to improve these conditions." Suddenly angrier than she knew she should be, Shepard stopped in the middle of the street and gestured to the nearest dwelling, a shack made of corroded metal with boarded-over windows. "Get some quarians on Pilgrimage in here to build these people decent houses. The quarians would be glad for the work and the Council could give them something to take back to the flotilla. Or send a crew of cleaning mechs through each district to reduce the risk of disease. It wouldn't even cost that much."

There were people staring at her from windows and doorways now, but Shepard didn't really care. Garrus looked at her steadily for a few moments, not saying anything, and she realized she had spoken more sharply than she'd meant to. "I'm sorry. It's not _your_ fault. It just makes me angry. Right here on the Council's doorstep…"

"Come on," Garrus said, his voice gentler than usual. "Let's get to Nightcrawler."

The bouncer at the front door of Nightcrawler barely glanced them over before gesturing for them to go in. Apparently armoured turians and humans with shotguns strapped to their waist were no unusual sight in these parts. The inside of the club was dark and musky, filled with the acrid synthetic cigarette smoke that was outlawed on other parts of the station. Techno music played alongside a heavy bass beat as bodies writhed on the dance floor and scantily clad asari undulated onstage. The overall setup was similar to Chora's Den, but smaller and dirtier, and Shepard could feel barely contained hostility and aggression hovering in the air. These people were not honest working-class out for a night of fun; many of them were thugs or gangsters, congregating in this loud, dimly lit den.

Shepard leaned close to Garrus and spoke quietly into his ear. "Head for the stage. See if you can spot our suspect. I'll chat up the bartender."

"Understood," he muttered back.

She felt a cold breeze as he left her side, and she sauntered over to the bar, falling into the rhythm of the music. She had spent enough time in clubs to know how this worked. The bartender was busy, so she took a seat between a quarreling human couple and a heavily tattooed turian conversing quietly with a volus.

She'd left off the makeup that morning and tied her hair back in a short tail, which would hopefully change her appearance enough that not many people would recognize her. The dim lighting helped. Leaning her elbow on the bar, she waited for the bartender to come around and inconspicuously watched Garrus move toward the stage. He was a master at this infiltration work; in the blink of an eye, he had dropped his confident C-Sec persona and was affecting the hulking mannerisms of a merc or a thug. The base of the stage was shrouded in darkness; soon the only way for her to identify him was by the blue glow of his visor.

"I'm telling you, it's better to pull our protection now," the tattooed turian to her left was saying in an undertone. His eyes were bright yellow and his skin—what was visible of it under the tattoos, anyway—was dark, like Nihlus's had been. "Make them sweat for a few days, _then_ come up with the higher prices."

The volus nodded in agreement. "I think," he began haltingly, his speech punctuated by intakes of breath, "you have a point. I'll work out the new fee tonight."

Shepard's earpiece hummed briefly, and she used the cover of her arm to activate the mike. "_Shepard,"_ crackled Garrus's flanged tones over the comm. "_I've got her. Second from the left. Give me a few minutes and I'll get her into one of the back rooms."_

Shepard glanced skeptically over at the stage. The second dancer from the left looked like any other asari from this distance, but no doubt Garrus was close enough to tell. "Roger that. Just be careful," she whispered into the mike. "Don't make any long-term commitments."

"_Very funny, Shepard."_

Shepard ordered a drink and watched the stage. The strippers danced close to the edge, interacting with the audience and accepting credit transfers to the tiny electronic boxes between their breasts every now and then. She saw the blue glow of Garrus's visor move forward, then the turian himself, leaning against the edge of the stage and gazing up at their target. A strange, sour feeling curdled in her gut at the sight; she didn't like seeing him there, but there was no time to analyze the reasons why. Garrus was reaching forward with a clawed hand, omni-tool glowing; the second dancer from the left sashayed forward, hips swaying with every step, and took Garrus's hand, pressing it to the receiver between her breasts. Shepard forced down the black tide of ugly emotion that rose within her, though she only breathed again when the dancer released his hand and he stepped away.

It was all just an act. She knew that. It was natural to feel protective of her subordinates, of course, but that kind of reaction was uncalled for. She had to keep herself under control.

For three more agonizing minutes, she watched Garrus continue to entice the dancer to the edge of the stage, the pair moving closer and closer together, until the asari was practically dancing in his lap. Shepard had never seen a turian _seduce_ anyone before, and though she had expected to find the sight slightly ridiculous, it was actually a little transfixing. All of that natural grace she had seen before on the battlefield was certainly being put to good use now; Garrus moved subtly with the music, not dancing outright but using the push and pull of the beat to shape himself around the asari dancer's routine. Shepard couldn't see his face, but she could imagine what he must look like. Eyes intense and unreadable, features etched with almost predatory intent…

The asari grabbed Garrus's hand and pulled him up onto the stage with her. She wound a naked arm around his narrow waist and led him behind the curtain, their departure marked by cheers and whoops from the audience.

Shepard knew she should wait, let Garrus get the situation under control, but she didn't want to leave him alone for one moment with that asari whore. Even as she pushed her drink back untouched and hopped down from the bar, slinking over to the stage, she rapidly searched through her mental database for reasons to put to the blind emotion. Danger, of course—all asari were biotics, and the one with Garrus right now was a possible murderer. Yes, that was why she needed to get to him quickly. Two against one was always better when biotics were involved.

No one noticed as Shepard slipped around the side of the stage; they were all too entranced by the dancers. She got lucky; the man guarding the door to the backrooms was distracted, arguing hotly with an obviously drunk patron, and she got past without being seen. The door wasn't even locked. Before anyone noticed her absence, she was inside and faced by a long, dark hallway lined with doors. A dim staircase to her right no doubt led backstage; she could hear music pulsing from above. Garrus and the asari had come this way, then.

She scanned her thermal radar, checking for bodies. The room directly across from the stage was filled with about a dozen pulsing dots, but farther down the hall was a room with only two occupants. Shepard moved quickly, not taking out her gun just yet. If someone caught her, she could claim that she was looking for someone, and possibly be escorted back into the club without being thrown out entirely. Anyway, she had her biotics if the asari decided to get feisty.

She opened the door. Inside was a small room that reminded her instantly of the brothel suite she had once spent three days in. Soldier instincts took over, and she quickly scanned her surroundings—big bed, red canopy, white carpet, dark walls. Nothing useful, nothing dangerous. Except for the gagged and bound asari lying on the bed, and the extremely smug-looking turian sitting on the edge.

"That was fast," Shepard said, surprised.

Garrus shrugged, eyeing the unconscious asari on the bed. "She wanted to play with ropes. Seemed to think she was going to get me on my back, wrists tied to the bedposts. Unfortunately for her, turians don't play that way."

Unable to resist, Shepard cocked an eyebrow at him. "Oh? How do they play, then?"

He shot her an amused glance. "Wouldn't you like to know?" Standing up, he came around to the side of the bed and glanced over the asari's limp figure. "I would check for weapons, but I don't see anywhere she could be hiding them."

"Hack into the club records. See if you can find out anything about her."

Shepard readied her biotics while he worked, just in case the asari woke up. The damage to her amp from that last battle had corrected itself over the last few days, just as Chakwas had said. The effect from the dog tags Garrus had given her was subtle, but noticeable; the chain around her neck glowed brighter as she reached for the familiar energy in her bones. She was definitely going to enjoy figuring out how to use the slight increase in power to her best advantage.

"Her name is Tamora Mernosi. Fifty-nine years of age. She's been working here for five years. Last paycheck, two thousand credits…"

Shepard held up a hand. "Wait, wait. She's only _fifty-nine?_ Christ, Garrus, she's just a kid."

Garrus stilled. "Oh. I… hadn't thought of it that way."

"Liara is over a hundred, and she said _that_ was young for asari. God, what's she doing in a place like this?" Shepard looked at the asari on the bed, really _looked_, and saw what she had not noticed before. The softness of her skin, the crisp young lines of her scalp, the delicacy of her limbs. Age was difficult to tell with asari, but all Shepard had to do was imagine a teenage girl on the bed in her place, and a rush of mingled pity and nausea welled up in her chest. "I don't know asari laws, but I'm pretty sure this one would count as a minor. We can't interrogate a minor, Garrus."

He crossed his arms. "Spectres can interrogate whoever they like. She might have killed a man, Shepard. And child or not, she's still dangerous."

"I know that," Shepard said sharply. "But this changes things. She may have been acting under duress. That paycheck could be fake. Maybe she's being forced to work here."

"Let's not jump to conclusions." Garrus leaned over the bed, unclipping a small black rod from inside the side curve of his cowl armour. He flicked a dial on the side and held it close to the unconscious asari's neck. "This should wake her up. I only stunned her. No damage, no pain. Be ready, Shepard."

There was a hum, a brief discharge of energy, and the asari's hands twitched. Her eyes opened, bright violet, and she gave a start at the sight of Garrus and Shepard leaning over her. Shepard stepped back and drew her sidearm on instinct as the blue glow of biotics enveloped the asari's body, the girl straining against her bonds, mouth working against the gag as she struggled to escape. But her biotics were not refined enough for the subtle manipulations necessary to escape the ropes, much as Shepard had expected; asari this young tended not to have very advanced biotics.

"We're not going to hurt you," Shepard said, holstering her gun with a decisive click. Garrus shot her a glance and she looked at him with reassurance, making the lines of his tense shoulders relax. They had perfected nonverbal communication, and she knew she didn't have to say anything to make him understand how she wanted to play this. "We just want to ask you a few questions." She reached out and plucked the gag from between the asari's lips.

"Let me go," the asari hissed as soon as the gag was gone, her outward bravado undercut by the trembling tones of fear. "I've got friends who'll kill you, commandos, my sister's in Eclipse—"

Shepard glanced at Garrus. The asari hadn't mentioned C-Sec, had made no threats to call security. Either she did not trust the law, or she believed it could not protect her. It made a sad kind of sense; from what Shepard had seen, there _was_ no law in the poorer sections of the Wards. The girl on the bed was an example of the refuse that the Council had thrown away to rot, washing their hands of the poor and the unclean—yet another reason to nourish Shepard's growing disgust for them.

"I want to untie you," Shepard said truthfully, "but I can't. I'm sorry. It's too dangerous—you might try to attack us, and we would have to hurt you."

The asari quieted, though she still glared at Shepard with resentful violet eyes. "You're a cop," she said.

Shepard shook her head. "No, I'm not. I'm Alliance military. A Spectre."

"A _Spectre_—?" Fear bloomed like black flowers in the asari's eyes. "Oh, Goddess, please, I don't want to die."

"I said I _wasn't going to hurt you."_ Shepard couldn't disguise the bitterness in her voice. One word and the girl was begging for her life. Was that really what Spectres represented? Not galactic security, but deadly renegades out to kill anyone in their way? Maybe Saren had been that kind of Spectre, but Shepard certainly was _not._ "Trust me, Tamora."

"You know my name."

"Yes. And I know that you're young, and you're scared. But trust me. I just want to know what involvement you have with Jerry Fortunato."

"The human?" The asari's lip trembled, though she was obviously trying to maintain a fierce expression. Shepard had seen enough teenagers trying to act like adults to know that it was fake, that underneath the mask, the girl was terrified. Once upon a time, that terrified girl had been Shepard herself. "If I tell you, will you let me go?"

Shepard felt pity pulling at her core, but she knew she had to be firm. "If you tell the truth, then yes."

Tamora gave a small, quick nod. Her voice was unsteady, but she seemed calmer now that she had a purpose. "Jerry used to come to Nightcrawler to watch me dance. He… liked me. We had drinks together, and he brought me to his hotel a few times. He was nice to me."

Garrus's mandibles twitched, and Shepard looked up to see a familiar confusion in his gaze. "Nice to you?"

"He never… hurt me."

Shepard closed her eyes and forced her breathing under control. Later, there would be time to correct all of the injustices in the world. For now, she had to focus on the mission. Garrus's mission. "Tamora, we found Fortunato dead in his hotel about an hour ago. Were you involved in his death?"

Tamora's eyelids flickered rapidly, but she didn't cry. For that, Shepard was grateful. She had never known what to do when people cried. Comfort wasn't something that came naturally to her. "I didn't kill him. But I helped. Nephim made me do it. Told me to go in and disable the mechs and cameras so his men could come in the back."

"Dammit," Garrus swore. "I didn't even know there was a back door. All of the systems back there were offline. No cameras, nothing."

"Who is Nephim?" Shepard asked.

"He owns this place. Bought me from the batarians five years ago, with Meriel and Lashaya. They dance here, too."

"Shit," Shepard hissed, unable to stand it any longer. She pushed off the side of the bed, ignoring the asari's wide-eyed gaze, and began to pace the room. "Garrus, this whole place is built on slave labor. Slavery on the Citadel! For God's sake, this isn't the Terminus Systems!"

"I can't believe C-Sec never knew about this place," Garrus muttered. "Right under our noses! Unbelievable."

Shepard turned back to the asari, who was watching the exchange between her and Garrus with renewed fear. "Didn't you know that slavery is illegal here? You could have called C-Sec. Nephim will be spending a _lot_ of time in prison after we report this."

"The other girls said that C-Sec would lock me up if I went to them," Tamora whispered. "I had to be good and learn to dance, or they'd give me back to the batarians."

Cold fury lanced through Shepard's body like a wound. "That. Will. Never. Happen." She curled her hands into fists and biotic blue flared over her skin like a supernova. Tamora stared at her in shock. "Garrus, untie her. We're shutting this place down."

"Wait, Shepard." Garrus raised his hands in an attempt to placate her. "One last question." He turned to Tamora. "Do you know why Nephim wanted Fortunato dead?"

"He didn't tell me. But the other girls were talking. Something about a shipment, and how Jerry was working for C-Sec. I thought they were lying. Jerry would never work for C-Sec. He was _nice_ to me." The young asari's voice was plaintive.

"C-Sec aren't enemies," Garrus said in tightly controlled tones. He looked at Shepard. "So the hit on Fortunato had to do with the shipment he tipped us off about. I had a hunch. This Nephim must have found out that Fortunato was feeding us information."

"What does C-Sec protocol recommend that we do in this situation?" Shepard asked, her voice dangerously low.

Garrus grimaced. "Take Tamora with us, leave the other girls, and file a request with C-Sec for a search warrant on this place."

"That won't work," Shepard said simply. "What would a _Spectre_ do?"

His eyes sharpened as he caught on. "I don't know," he said in a voice so layered with subharmonics it was almost a purr. "You tell me."

"Go after Nephim. Evacuate the workers and everyone else. Then burn this fucking place to the ground."

A rush of heady fire ran through her as she said it, like guilty pleasure.

Garrus smiled and bent down to pull something from his boot with a _shi-ick_ of sliding metal. It was a serrated knife two-thirds as long as Shepard's forearm. He cut Tamora's bonds with a few quick slices and helped the trembling girl to her feet.

"Sounds good to me."


	14. Primitive

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: I'm back! The AP tests completely drained me of all my energy; I barely have enough left to post this chapter. To make things worse, I haven't played video games or written anything for an entire WEEK. Ugh. High school. Anyway, glad to be back, and here you are: the latest chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Primitive

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_1:31 p.m._

* * *

It had been a while since Garrus had seen Shepard really fired up. This Shepard was bold and dangerous, all sinuous stride and eyes of smoldering majorelle blue, voice a confusing amalgam of hot and cold. He had seen this Shepard on Virmire, and again on Ilos as she stalked her quarry like a Palaven _kyrrvil_, and in those last captured moments when she stood over Saren's desecrated corpse and stared into his dead eyes. This was the Shepard who showed herself whenever things got personal. Ashley's death had been the catalyst for her last transformation—Garrus wasn't completely sure what had caused this one.

"Stay here," Shepard had ordered Tamora, and the frightened asari girl had complied, locking herself into the bedroom. She told Shepard where Nephim's office was before doing so; Shepard had accepted the information with a steely glint in her eye, and told Garrus to have his rifle handy.

Garrus didn't know exactly what Shepard was planning to do, but he didn't see the point in asking. Shepard would handle things as she always did—her way. There would be no innocent deaths or collateral damage, her squad would not be put in unnecessary danger, and the job would be finished, one way or another. That was how Shepard worked. Garrus had learned to trust her prerogative—it always turned out all right.

Nephim's office was guarded by two lounging turians wearing black hardsuits. At the sight of Shepard rounding the corner, body glowing with biotics and pistol cocked, they gave shouts of warning and drew their own weapons. That erased the last of Garrus's doubts about their crusade. If this shady Nephim character had enough enemies to need armed guards posted outside his door, he was probably deep enough in the underworld to be fair game for Shepard. Even so, Shepard gave the mercs one last warning, something Garrus would not have done in her place. Pistol barrel leveled at the two guards, she barked out, "Drop your weapons and tell your boss we need to talk."

"Who the hell are you?" snapped one of the turians.

"Commander Shepard, Council Spectre. Here with Citadel Security."

The other turian said a very dirty word that Garrus was sure Shepard's translator had not picked up, since she lifted one eyebrow in skeptical confusion. "Cops! Kill them!"

That was enough for Garrus. The guard's first shot clipped his shields and he pulled the trigger on his assault rifle in response. His first round was gone and the left-hand guard's shields nearly depleted by the time he had to dive for cover around the corner, kinetic barriers at half-capacity. Shepard, on the other hand, threw caution to the winds and slammed her palm forward, unleashing a biotic kick that sent one of the guards flying three meters into the opposite wall with a loud _crack._ The other guard staggered but managed to stay on his feet, only clipped by the edge of the biotic field. Shepard shot his shields to shreds and Garrus leaned out from behind cover to gun him down, vibrations from the gun running down his arms with a familiar buzz as the other turian's body jerked and twitched in the rain of projectiles.

"Good work," Shepard said brusquely, stepping over the corpse and heading for the door. "Killing them wasn't my first choice, but they shot first."

"We're never the ones to shoot first, Shepard. Have you ever noticed that?" Garrus slipped past to help her, hands hovering over hers until she relented and stepped away from the console. He put his superior hacking skills to work, easing past the door's electronic defenses until the locking mechanism sputtered and turned green.

"Blame my merciful nature," Shepard said with a toothy grin. "We clear?"

"We're clear," Garrus confirmed.

At a nod from Shepard, the two of them took up positions on either side of the door as it opened. Both of them remembered the assault on Chora's Den, all those months ago—Garrus did _not_ want a repeat of that fiasco with the turrets. He, Shepard, and Wrex had spent at least five whole minutes playing cat and mouse with Fist, ducking out from behind cover to squeeze off a few precious rounds before the turrets hammered down their shields. It hadn't been a relaxing experience.

The doors slid open, and Garrus braced himself for a barrage of bullets. But… nothing. Silence. A still, quiet room.

He locked eyes with Shepard, seeking confirmation, and she gave a tiny nod. Garrus activated the mirror-view on his visor to peer around the corner without exposing himself to possible fire. The room's interior appeared like a fairly normal executive office, with the exception of the large holo of a naked asari on the far wall. Tasteful. Garrus checked his thermal radar; he was picking up a warm body in the center of the room. From the look Shepard gave him, she had seen the same thing.

"Come out with your hands up," she called, "and we won't shoot."

There was a moment's silence. Then a scuffling sound, and a figure slowly emerged from behind the desk. Nephim was a turian, as Garrus had guessed from the name. No colony markings—barefaced. The turian held his hands above his head, scowling at Garrus and Shepard. Garrus couldn't detect any fear in his gaze, just loathing.

"Well, to what do I owe the pleasure? Citadel Security, I presume?"

"Special Tactics and Reconnaissance, actually," Shepard said through gritted teeth. She rounded the corner, leveling her pistol at Nephim's chest. The turian barely flinched. "I have a few complaints about your establishment that I was hoping you could address."

"I don't deal with customer satisfaction, Spectre. Ask the dancers. They'll be happy to assist you."

"Enough," Shepard growled. Sensing danger in her voice, Garrus moved to stand beside her. Her gaze did not waver from Nephim, but a brief flick of her eyelashes acknowledged Garrus's proximity. She knew how this worked; Garrus was there to back her up, but he wouldn't interfere in the conversation. Shepard could more than handle herself when it came to wordplay. "Slavery is illegal on the Citadel. So is the prostitution and exploitation of minors."

Nephim sneered. "There are no slaves, prostitutes, or minors in my establishment. You'll need proof to back up those claims."

Shepard took a step closer. She was less than a meter away from the turian now, point-blank range. Her eyes burned with the infamous cold blue fire that served as the centerpiece for so many Alliance recruitment posters. "I don't need proof." Her voice was gunmetal, cold and smooth. "I can do whatever I like to you, _slaver._ If you'd rather keep your limbs for your jail sentence, a full confession would be in your best interests. Now."

"It doesn't matter what you do to me, Spectre. I'm no amateur. You won't find any records."

Shepard's skin began to glow. "I can make you talk."

Derision glinted in Nephim's pale yellow eyes. "I know who you are. Shepard, the first human Spectre. Morals etched in stone and pride to match. You won't torture me. It would be _beneath_ you."

"You don't know anything about me."

"On the contrary. I know exactly why you decided to interfere with my harmless establishment. Anyone who's ever spoken with a batarian knows who you are and why you hate them. Ever since they ravaged your precious little colony…"

"I don't hate batarians. I absolutely detest, loathe, and _abhor_ slavers." Shepard took the last step and shoved her pistol under Nephim's chin. Then everything began to happen at once.

The air around Shepard crackled, as if she'd been caught in a lightning storm. Then, with the sudden and acrid stench of burned hair and the fizzle of evaporating shields, an electric current ran over the surface of Shepard's armour, locking her in place. In the same moment, a look of pure animal hatred distorted Nephim's features and he lunged forward, hands arcing through the air.

Time seemed to slow as Garrus's military eye rapidly noted and categorized the entire situation. He saw the sparks racing across Shepard's armour. He saw the barrel of her pistol tilt uselessly to the side. He saw Nephim's claws, extended and honed to razor-sharp edges, the natural killing weapons of a born predator. And he moved. Knocked into Shepard from the side as Nephim's claws came arcing down. Saw the spray of red human blood. Heard her gasp.

There were no words for what went through his head then. He saw Shepard stagger and the gun slip from her hand. Hot black tar filled his veins and Nephim narrowed to a bundle of vital points in his mind's eye. He barreled into the other turian with the force of a small tank, smashing him against the wall behind the desk. Claws raked against his hardsuit, to no avail. Garrus shoved his rifle into Nephim's gut and pulled the trigger. Machine gun fire filled the small room and blue blood stained his cowl.

When Nephim moved no more, Garrus let the body crumple to the ground and turned to see Shepard leaning heavily against the desk, face white as paper, clamping her hands to her neck.

"Let me see. Dammit, Shepard, let me see." Garrus pried her fingers away. There was so much blood, red and sticky, sickly sweet-smelling. The cuts from Nephim's claws were long, but they were clean, and to Garrus's relief, they had not struck any arteries or, Spirits forbid, Shepard's jugular. "Don't talk. You'll make the bleeding worse," he told her.

She said nothing, pressing her hands to her neck again to stem the blood flow, as he removed a medi-gel packet from his belt. It was obvious that she was in pain, but Shepard was a soldier; she knew how to stick it out. She hadn't been wearing a helmet or neck covering, so the medi-gel couldn't be dispensed through her suit; Garrus would have to apply it manually. "Hold still," he told her, though there was no need; she was still as a statue. It was really just to make himself feel better.

He tried to be as gentle as possible as he squeezed gel onto his fingers and spread it over the cuts on her neck, but it still took a few seconds for the anesthetic to kick in. Garrus noticed that her fingers were trembling, so he pulled them away and replaced them with his own, holding the cuts closed as the medi-gel did its work. Her skin was cool, but her blood was warm. He could feel her pulse beating against his fingertips. She watched him; the fire had died somewhat from her eyes, erased by pain and… shame?

Gradually the bleeding lessened, then stopped altogether as the cuts began to knit together. Within a few minutes, the long horizontal scratches had been replaced by indented pink lines, still slightly inflamed, but covered with new skin. Garrus supposed it was a good thing that Nephim's claws had been fairly clean. No danger of infection.

"There," he said quietly. He had let his hands linger longer than necessary without realizing, and he pulled them away now.

"Thank you." Shepard touched her neck, wincing. "I've never… No one has ever tried _that_ on me before. I wasn't expecting it. So… primitive."

"He was cornered and waiting for his chance. The shield disruptor kicked in when you got too close." Garrus eyed the black box attached to the bottom of Nephim's desk. He hadn't seen it before; he'd been at the wrong angle. "Those claws could have caused some serious damage. No well-bred turian would keep them that sharp. You're lucky he didn't slice your windpipe."

"I should have been prepared. I let my anger get in the way." Shepard blinked slowly, getting herself under control again. "If you hadn't pushed me, it would have been a lot worse."

Unsure what to say, Garrus scratched his fringe and looked at the dead turian on the floor. It certainly wasn't the first time he had helped his commander avoid harm on the battlefield, but this seemed different for some reason. "Yes, well. You humans are so soft. It was the least I could do."

Shepard came around the edge of the desk and brought up Nephim's personal terminal. "Let's see if he was telling the truth when he said that there were no records."

Garrus added his hands to hers, searching through the terminal. Anyone else might never have found it, but he eventually discovered a cache of encrypted data hidden away in the bowels of the server, protected by layers of security coding. Shepard stepped away and let him work on cracking it; that was by far his area of expertise, not hers. "Got it," Garrus said with satisfaction as he peeled away the last layer—figuratively speaking, of course.

Shepard moved closer again as he pulled the data up on-screen. The lines of glowing text reflected in the shiny surface of her armour. "Fourteen records of trade with batarian slavers in the last _month_… Six hit orders against rival gang leaders… Correspondence with Shadow Broker agents… Heavy investment in two hundred and forty-seven illegal drug shipments in the last year…"

Garrus shook his head. "I can't believe we never even heard about him."

"Here. A cash drop and goods exchange from three days ago. Is this the one you're looking for?"

"That's the one. Looks like Fortunato told us the truth after all. Corrin was the liar; Nephim paid him off. That was before he found out about Fortunato and sent his men to kill him."

"All right. That explains almost everything. But where's the shipment now?"

Garrus examined the screen. "Right here in the basement of the Nightcrawler."

"Damn. I guess that means we can't burn this place to the ground, after all."

"We can shut it down, though. Ah, here we are." Garrus activated the building-wide intercom and remotely shut down the loud music playing in the club below. Shepard kept an eye on the security cameras and smirked at the sight of the dancers looking around in confusion and the patrons roaring in protest. "Fortunately, our Nephim was so paranoid that he made all of his announcements through a voice filter," Garrus said, and turned on the mike.

"_Nightcrawler is closing early tonight,"_ Shepard said loudly. Her voice echoed through the entire building, distorted into something metallic and utterly unrecognizable. "_All non-employees must leave the premises immediately. If you do not comply, you will be removed by force."_

"Nice," Garrus said appreciatively. He leaned back against the desk. "I'd say that's a job well done. Chellick asked me to talk to a witness, and I shut down an illegal slave trading ring, freed a dozen slaves, and killed a black market crime lord for him."

Shepard smiled. "Let's see him criticize your focus now."

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_5:15 p.m._

* * *

After reporting to C-Sec, Garrus and Shepard went out for dinner, feeling thoroughly satisfied with themselves. The freed slaves had been turned over to the asari embassy; it turned out that about half of them were underage, and all but three had been bought from batarian slavers at some point in the last twenty years. The remaining three had given themselves to Nephim to work off debts incurred in the black market. The asari councilor had sent a brief but grateful message to Shepard, thanking her for her assistance. Garrus had offered to help Chellick assemble a team to go after Corrin, now that they knew the salarian informant had fed them false information, but Chellick had dismissed him with a brief, "You've done your job, Garrus, now go back to your vacation. Spirits know you won't be getting another one for a while."

"You did well today," Shepard commented over a plate of something crispy and green. "The hacking, getting us into all of those security systems, subduing that girl without a fight. It was all very up to snuff."

Garrus felt warmth spread in his chest. He wouldn't tell her so, but praise from Shepard meant eons more than anything Chellick or the C-Sec bureaucrats could have said. Shepard expected the very best from her team, as she very well should, and if she said that he had done a good job, she meant it. "Well, you know. Couldn't let you think C-Sec was making me soft."

"Say what you like about C-Sec, Garrus. But I think it's good for you."

Garrus froze. Something about the way Shepard had said it, _something_ in her voice—it made him feel like someone had poured ice water over his head. "Maybe," he said carefully, watching her face. She calmly chewed her green human food, giving nothing away. "But serving on the Normandy was _better_ for me."

_Don't say it,_ his subharmonics pleaded, though he knew she couldn't understand them. Any turian would have, but this was yet another jarring reminder of how different they were, even though Garrus sometimes felt they were so close that biology made no difference. _Don't say you're going to leave me here._

"Was it really?" There it was again. A tang of something… wistful? Dammit, he couldn't be sure. Now he knew how humans felt when turian subharmonics said the opposite of what their words were trying to convey. "I know you don't like to hear it, but I think your father is right about some things. I'm glad I became a Spectre, of course, but I do think sometimes that they have… too much power. It puts the galaxy out of balance."

"You're the most responsible person I know," Garrus said tightly, doing his best to stay calm. "Saren was insane. Indoctrinated. You can't judge all Spectres by his example. Some of them are nothing but good. Like you."

"Maybe," she said doubtfully. "But that kind of influence should only go so far…"

Him. She was talking about him. She couldn't possibly… Did she really think that _Garrus_ would use her and the Normandy to take advantage of her _status?_ No. It had to be something else. Danger—was she worried about putting him in danger? Ridiculous. Garrus could take care of himself. Shepard didn't worry needlessly about people she knew were capable—she wasn't stupid enough for that. So what was the problem? Dammit, why were humans so confusing?

"Maybe I'm not like you, Shepard. I don't always know right from wrong, or the best way to get a job done. But I _try._" He struggled to disguise the pain in his voice, but he didn't know if he succeeded. "The Normandy was _not_ a bad influence on me."

"It's not the Normandy's influence I'm worried about," she snapped. "It's mine."

"Yours—?" Garrus stared at her, hardly believing his ears. "How in the _galaxy_ do you figure that one, Shepard? You're—"

"Look at what happened today," she cut in, and Garrus automatically stopped talking. It was instinct, drilled into him by years of military training, to shut up when a commander started talking. "We were on a C-Sec operation. I should have let you take the lead. We _should_ have gone back and gotten a search warrant. Instead I let my personal feelings get in the way, put us _both_ in danger by going after Nephim without backup. If I wasn't a Spectre, I never would have done it. But I've gotten used to that freedom, the lack of responsibility. And if that could happen to _me_—" She stopped, shook her head as if to clear it, and started again. "How can I say that I've been a good influence on you when, for the past year, I've been telling you over and over to set your own feelings aside and always do the best thing for everyone involved, and then I go and do something like that?"

"Shepard," Garrus growled. "Listen to yourself. You're rationalizing. Nothing you just said made any sense. Going after Nephim was the right choice. We couldn't just leave those girls there."

She stared at him, lips slightly parted. Garrus struggled and failed to imagine what was going through her head. He just didn't understand what she was trying to get across—that she didn't trust him? That she didn't trust herself? And it tugged at something deep inside him, to see her looking so confused.

"If you don't want me on the Normandy," he said cuttingly, hoping to draw out the truth, "you can go ahead and say so."

"No," she breathed, sounding so utterly aghast that Garrus instantly believed her. "No, that's not it at all. It makes no sense, but I _do_ want you back on my ship. More than anything. It scares me."

"Why? I don't understand."

"Because I've never cared this much," she said quietly, staring down at her plate. "I've been a soldier for thirteen years. Served on six different ships, with more squadmates and commanding officers and subordinates than I can count. Some were friends. Some weren't. I cared about all of them. But not enough to miss them when they were gone, when I was reassigned or they were."

Garrus crossed his arms. "Well, that's how friendship works, Shepard. I don't see any problem with… missing someone."

"Maybe not," she sighed. "I'm out of my depth here, Garrus. I'm not used to that."

"I won't pretend I'm any better at this than you are." Maybe his plan would have to be delayed. At least a little while, until they figured this out. He had been planning to tell her tonight, but maybe that was too soon. "But I think you're overthinking it. Sometimes there's no rule that works. You just have to… improvise. Do what feels right."

She choked, and for a second Garrus thought she was crying. Then he realized she was laughing and trying desperately to keep it quiet.

"What?" he demanded, utterly bewildered. "What did I say?"

Shepard pressed both hands to her mouth, still shaking in silent convulsions of laughter. Eventually she managed to get herself under control again, and that lost look Garrus had seen in her eyes earlier had vanished. She was his Shepard again, not the frightening cold creature who said things he didn't understand but knew were wrong.

"Nothing. It's nothing. I'm sorry."

He understood that the apology was for more than her laughter, and he made himself smile, made himself content not to understand everything.

"It's all right."


	15. The Difference

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: I am so behind on answering reviews again. Speaking of which... reviews have been slowing down a bit again... Maybe everyone else is as busy with APs and finals as I am. So, this chapter is a brief return to fluff, although there is more action in the works...**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

The Difference

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_7:48 p.m._

* * *

"I just have one question," Shepard asked when they returned to Garrus's apartment. He was checking the security footage of the hallway in front of his door, just like he apparently did every time he came home. If Shepard were anyone else, she might have called him paranoid, but she happened to know exactly how it felt to see enemies around every corner. "What exactly happened last night?"

He went still, fingers hesitating over his omni-tool for a moment. "What do you mean?"

"You know. I don't remember much after Chellick left. I assume we drank some more. But where did we get the alcohol? And why did I end up on the couch?"

"I don't remember either," he said innocently.

Impatient, she paced around to stand in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "There must be something. Don't you have any cameras in here?"

"Disabled them all. I don't like being watched."

"Well, okay, fine. Let me see the hallway footage from last night, then. We must have left at some point to buy drinks."

Reluctantly, he surrendered his omni-tool to her. Shepard scrolled through the clips from the day before with a fingertip. Six o'clock, seven o'clock, eight o'clock, nine o'clock… ah, ten o'clock. She opened the clip and set it on fast forward, frowning at the small screen. There was Chellick leaving at around ten o'clock, and no more activity for the next hour or so. Then—a blur of movement, Garrus's front door opening—Shepard set it to play at normal speed.

In the grainy hallway on the omni-tool display, a miniature Shepard and Garrus emerged into the hallway. Shepard was wearing that ghastly Christmas sweater and both of them were laughing hysterically about something. They hung around the door for a few seconds while Garrus locked it, then walked away fairly steadily down the hall and out of sight.

Shepard paused the footage and raised an eyebrow at Garrus, who was avoiding her eyes. "Do _you_ remember what was so funny?"

"No idea."

She tapped fast-forward again. Midnight came and went, and it was nearing one in the morning before there was movement in the hallway. Shepard and Garrus rounded the corner, and they were… holding hands. Both of them were breathing hard, as if they'd just stopped running, and Shepard was carrying her boots in her free hand; she was barefoot.

"I found your socks this morning," said Garrus, sounding almost apologetic. "Aya has them at the front desk."

Shepard looked down at her right hand. The shallow gashes in the palm she'd woken up with had almost healed by now, thanks to her standard Alliance regen mods, but her skin was still marked with pink lines.

"Sorry… about that." Now he definitely sounded apologetic. "I must have lost my gloves at some point."

"At least you don't keep your claws as sharp as Nephim did."

On-screen, Garrus and Shepard were still in front of the door; Garrus seemed to be having trouble getting it unlocked. He managed to get the retinal scans done properly on the third try, and the door slid open. Still holding hands, the pair disappeared inside, and the hallway was still once more.

"I wish you hadn't disabled the cameras inside, but at the same time…" Shepard let him have the omni-tool back with a grimace.

He nodded, still avoiding her eyes. "Better not to know."

Shepard didn't say what they were both thinking: _At least I woke up with all of my clothes on._

* * *

**December 28th, 2183**

_8:19 p.m._

* * *

"Which one do you want to watch first?" Garrus asked, flicking between the two virtual movie posters on his television display. The _Die for the Cause_ poster featured a turian in heavy battle armour viewed from the back, striding toward the smoking ruins of a city with a rifle in one hand and a grenade launcher slung across his back. He was helmetless, with long, curving horns that reminded Shepard of Saren's. The _Two Steps to Freedom_ poster was subtler, depicting a ragged, dust-covered Asian woman in black-and-silver Unionist uniform leaning against a doorway, profile framed by the light of a setting sun.

"Let's see your turian movie first. I'm curious. You've seen plenty of human vids, but I haven't seen any turian ones."

Garrus agreeably selected _Die for the Cause_, and the pair of them settled back onto the couch to watch. It wasn't a large couch, and though they had shared it before, it felt even smaller now for some reason. Shepard couldn't move even slightly without brushing against Garrus somehow. Not that she minded—actually, the warmth was quite nice. Turian body temperature was slightly higher than humans', and he felt a lot like a personal heating unit.

Which made her wonder if her own temperature was bothering him. Sitting in such close proximity to someone with perpetually cold feet couldn't be too comfortable. But he didn't seem to mind either, so she didn't ask.

The vid started off with a bang—quite literally. There were no introductory credits or scrolling titles, like Shepard was used to seeing in mainstream human vids. Just a brief shot of two groups of starships orbiting a mass relay in complete deep-space silence: one group turian design, the others human and painted with Alliance symbols. Then an explosion as the foremost turian ship fired its main gun and one of the human fighters went up in flame.

"Relay 314," Garrus murmured, eyes fixed on the screen.

The space battle was short but bloody. The human vessels were utterly decimated, save for one lone survivor that escaped into FTL before the turians could recoup their losses and begin pursuit. Several shots of wreckage and suit-clad human bodies twisting in the pressure of space peppered the brief scene, which was shot entirely in silence. The effect was mesmerizing.

Afterward, the camera cut away from the space battle and focused on the interior of the turian vessel that had fired first. A turian stood at the helm of the ship, gazing at the virtual display. Shepard recognized him from the picture Garrus had sent; it was Calistax Morium, the actor rumored to be playing Garrus's role in the upcoming film, _Citadel._ White face paint, more ornate than Garrus's simple lines, adorned the hard lines of his face and the upward sweep of his horns. His eyes were a paler blue than Garrus's and his skin was dark, nearly black, flecked with golden specks that caught the light.

Shepard glanced between the turian on the screen and the turian sitting on the couch next to her, eyeing the differences and the similarities. Garrus had told her earlier that Morium was considered… what was the phrase he had used? "Drool-worthy?" Shepard could certainly see the appeal. Those long horns, the intense eyes and bright paint against the rich black of his skin… she was no expert on what turians considered attractive, but there was definitely something there.

She looked speculatively at Garrus. He had claimed to look nothing like Morium, but their facial structure was actually quite similar. Garrus's fringe was more moderate by turian standards, but his facial plates were just as well defined as Morium's, and his eyes were a slightly more brooding sort of blue. To be honest, Shepard preferred the simplicity of his markings to the ornate designs of Morium's face paint. It was more understated and seemed to convey strength rather than just aesthetic appeal. Not that it wasn't nice to look at as well…

"Admiring the view?"

Shepard jumped, certain that she had been caught staring, but when Garrus waved his hand at the screen, she realized he was referring to Morium. The camera was still focusing on his profile as he scanned the virtual display; turian vids certainly had much longer pauses than human vids, less insistent forward momentum and more contemplative silence. It seemed to suggest patience rather than the rushed sense of life that humans were so often accused of having.

"A little," she admitted, glad that Garrus hadn't noticed her staring at _him._ That might have been awkward to explain. "He looks a little like Nihlus. The coloring, at least."

"Nihlus? Who… oh. _That_ Nihlus. I'd forgotten that you served with him."

"Not for very long. Still, he was the first turian that I ever really had _conversations_ with. Not the sort we have, but he was interesting to talk to."

"His death was all over the news after Eden Prime. He was almost as well known as Saren, and much easier to get along with." Garrus shifted, elbow brushing against Shepard's shoulder. "I never met him."

"I liked him," Shepard said frankly. "A lot of the crew avoided him, or even tried to bait him—they weren't used to having aliens on the ship, especially humans. But he never seemed to care. Nothing but friendly to me, whenever we talked. He seemed very… interested in me. Asked a lot of questions. In hindsight, he was probably judging me for Spectre candidacy, but he just seemed curious at the time."

"Hmm."

"Anderson told me later that Nihlus probably would have been my mentor. I would have spent a lot more time with him, if Saren hadn't killed him." Shepard thought of the anger she had felt upon discovering Nihlus's body in the spaceport on Eden Prime; coming so hard on the heels of Jenkins' death, it had felt like a personal blow. _Saren._ It was a name she had never heard before, but it had become a conduit for her anger and hatred. So many deaths belonged to that name—Jenkins, Nihlus, Liara's mother, Ashley. She had never become so emotionally invested in a mission before.

Garrus must have picked up on the feeling in her voice, because he turned toward her, blue eyes questioning. "Were you two… friends, then?"

"I wouldn't call it that," Shepard said carefully. "I didn't know him long enough. But it might have happened, if… well."

Garrus fell silent, and Shepard had an absurd thought: did he think that, if things had gone differently, Nihlus might have _replaced_ him? On the surface, it didn't sound too far-fetched. She had liked Nihlus; their personalities seemed compatible and she had even understood his sense of humor most of the time, a novelty among aliens. But even if he had become her mentor or her friend, the relationship she had with Garrus was something far deeper. He couldn't be supplanted, not by anyone. The very idea was ridiculous. She wanted to tell him so, but it sounded odd to say it, even in her head.

They didn't talk much after that; the movie quickly reabsorbed Shepard's attention. The dialogue was fairly dry, at least compared to human vids; there was hardly any exaggeration for dramatic effect, and the romantic subplot almost universal in human vids of this type was completely absent. The closest it got was a brief holo-correspondence between Morium's character, General Sidra, and his mate back on Palaven; even that scene sounded more like a mission report than a conversation between two separated lovers. Shepard found the vid's focus on practicality and military operations over drama unfamiliar, but refreshing. The war scenes were extremely realistic; she found herself holding her breath for parts of the Shanxi invasion. With the 360 technology providing her with surround-sound and fully-dimensional imaging, it felt and sounded like she was really there in the trenches, watching both human and turian soldiers being gunned down. She had to look sideways at Garrus every now and then to reassure herself that she was still there next to him, not in the middle of a battlefield.

The psychological effect was the most interesting part of all. By the time the vid was half over, she found herself tensing every time a human battalion appeared onscreen—they were the enemy, and she was the turian general ordering his troops into position to gun down the hostile aliens. The simple mental filter that identified members of her own race as "friendly" and the others as unknown or hostile seemed to have been turned off, somehow. It was both disturbing and completely fascinating.

The structure itself was completely unpredictable. It paid absolutely no heed to the conventional structure of human war movies; Shepard hadn't the slightest clue what was going to happen from each moment to the next, except for what she knew from history lessons. The scenes happened in strict chronological order—sometimes shots of a heated discussion between turian officers were cut through with shots of a simultaneous firefight several kilometers away, as if Shepard were watching both at the same time. By the end of the movie, she was completely transfixed. Garrus and the den had ceased to exist as far as she was concerned, and all that was real was General Sidra, his brusque dialogue and the specters of the lost that haunted him, his bitter strength and brutal charisma. He was a figure condemned to the pages of history but so devastatingly _human_, too. It was almost exhausting to watch Morium's performance, simply because it was so utterly vivid during every moment that he was onscreen.

And when the dust from the last explosions cleared, the Council fleet arrived to broker peace, and the screen faded to black… Shepard found herself gaping in shock.

"What? That can't be it. It can't be over."

Garrus turned an amused eye on her. "Why not?"

"There was no _closure!_ What happened to the officers? Sidra's right-hand man? What happened to _Sidra?_ He's the main character!"

"He died," Garrus said simply, sounding utterly satisfied by the fact. Shepard stared at him. "The mission demanded it. He sacrificed himself to carry out the tactical objective and died a hero. His squad and right-hand man left with the turian fleet. What's so hard to understand?"

Shepard found herself unable to explain what exactly she had found so disturbing. Sidra's utter lack of last words, for one. Main characters who died in human vids _always_ had one last stirring monologue. But Sidra had simply marched into that human church with his assault rifle ready and held out against the soldiers barricaded within for a full twenty minutes before being cut down. The vid had not even included a scene of his dedicated officers or his right-hand man, the tragically loyal Vayin, grieving his death. It just felt terribly incomplete.

"But they didn't even say a word about him dying. The whole movie was about him, and nobody cared."

"Of course they cared. He was mourned with full military honors and Vayin, along with his entire squad, attended his funeral. Everyone knows that. Why should they put it in the movie?"

"I didn't believe you when you said turian movies were something else. Now I do." Shepard shook her head. "It was… wow. Might have ruined human vids for me forever."

"Really? Most humans don't like them."

"They're different. Really different. But I loved it."

"Let's put yours in, then. See how different they really are."

_Two Steps to Freedom_ was infinitely more familiar to Shepard. She had seen it dozens of times; it had been Casey's favorite, and after the first few times of being roped into watching it, she had started to enjoy it. After joining the Alliance, it had come to mean much more to her. The main character, Kristin Lee, was a Unionist gunnery chief fighting in the Second American Civil War, against secessionists and terrorist sects. Her brother had died in the bombing of the Statue of Liberty, and she was out for revenge. The movie was a typical war drama in many aspects, with lots of emotionally charged scenes and battles filled with explosions—suitable for Lee's double role as a demolitions expert—but it was also the story of Lee's evolving character, from bitter renegade hunting down terrorists to morally grounded officer dedicated to the cause of freedom, not vengeance.

And maybe Shepard saw just a little of herself in the movie's dark-haired, hard-as-nails protagonist. Not visually: Lee was half Korean, with skin heavily tanned by years of field work and eyes so impenetrably dark they could have been black. Nerissa Ashburton, the actress who played her, was no Hollywood beauty—her jaw was too pronounced and her nose a smidge too large, at least without makeup. But her sheer talent made up for it. Ashburton had spent six months with professional Alliance trainers before the filming began, preparing for her role; she moved and talked like a soldier, her performance so utterly believable that Shepard had no problem taking it at face value.

"Hmm," was all Garrus said when the romance scene arrived. Shepard wondered if he was uncomfortable—there had been absolutely nothing comparable in the turian movie—but he showed no signs of it, merely watching the scene to its conclusion with cool, focused eyes. The actors showed very little skin, but it was obvious what they were doing. Lee was gone the next morning, leaving the young communications tech who had shared her bed without so much as a note.

Okay, that was something Shepard couldn't see herself doing. For one, she had never had anything approaching a relationship, or even a one-night stand, with anyone who wasn't an active combatant. She didn't think dating a civilian was really an option for her. Sure, she had had that crush on Jonah Mills when she was thirteen, but that hardly counted.

"Interesting choice," Garrus commented when the scene was over.

Shepard shifted in her seat. "Well, you know the rules about fraternization. I guess techs don't really count."

"No such rules for turians. If it doesn't get in the way of work or the mission, it's fair game."

She chanced a sideways glance at him, curious but unwilling to probe further. "What do you think of Ashburton? I think it's only fair, since you asked me about Calistax Morium."

"She's skilled enough as an actress. I'm more interested in the character. So utterly driven by her brother's death. She reminds me of Saren."

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

Garrus turned to look at her; he seemed more interested in their conversation than the heated emotional debate going on between Lee and her commanding officer onscreen. "Desolas Arterius died in the Relay 314 Incident. Saren never got over his hatred of humans. You and I are witnesses to how far he went in that hatred. Maybe he claimed to hate humans for political reasons, but it was really about revenge. A personal vendetta." He gestured toward the screen. "This Kristin Lee. Her brother was killed by Freedoms First terrorists. Her hatred was initially limited to his killers, but spread to include all secessionists."

Shepard nodded slowly, remembering a particularly bloody scene in the first half of the movie. Lee had reached the culmination of an eight-month-long hunt for the last of the terrorists involved in the Statue of Liberty bombing, and proceeded to kill him, in violation of her orders to apprehend him and bring him in alive. It hadn't been pretty. "You're right. They are similar."

"But this human has a chance to change for the better. A chance Saren never had, thanks to Sovereign."

"He tried, at the end," Shepard murmured. It wasn't something she liked to think about. Her psyche had demonized Saren, molding him into a representation of everything she hated and feared about the Reaper threat. For all she was concerned, he might have shot Ashley personally. She still dreamed about wringing his neck, sometimes. But somehow her words, spoken in desperation to make him _see_, had taken hold, and he had made his best attempt at redemption at the end.

That scene haunted her nightmares, too. Sometimes she woke up in a cold sweat from a dream about the look in his icy blue eyes in the moment right before he pulled the trigger. Like a man trapped and condemned, no longer afraid to die, because it was the only option left. Everything he cared about gone—his brother, the friend and student that he had murdered himself. No part of life to look forward to, just possession by a race of synthetics who cared nothing for organics.

"All right?" Garrus asked quietly, and Shepard blinked and gave him a reassuring nod.

"Fine." She shifted a little closer to him, glad of his presence and his warmth. He made a humming noise of approval and lifted his arm to wrap loosely around her shoulders. Shepard let herself relax into him as they both focused on the screen once more. It was much more comfortable to sit this way, making the best use of the space available. The metal of his hardsuit was cool against her cheek, a counterpoint to his own heat.

Saren was gone. Nihlus was gone. She had hated the one and respected the other, but neither of them were coming back, and Garrus was all she had. All she needed. Right now, the confusion that had plagued her earlier no longer seemed to matter. Wherever she was or whatever distance there was between them, he would still be there. However long they were separated, she would still wait for him, and so would he.

And that was enough. Whatever happened, that would always be enough.


	16. Archangel

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: Hey, so I thought I owed everyone an apology for my constant nagging about reviews. Thanks to the helpful comments of a few of my reviewers, I realised that I was turning into exactly the kind of writer I hate :( I appreciate each and every one of my readers, whether they review or not, and I'm not just writing this story for the reviews. Thought I ought to clear that up :) Enjoy the story!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Archangel

* * *

**December 29th, 2183**

_4:17 a.m._

* * *

Garrus woke sometime in the night from a dream of which he remembered nothing. Greeted by darkness and the sound of Shepard's even breath, he lay awake for a while. Eventually he slid out of bed and padded out into the den.

Wearing armour for four days straight was nothing unusual; he had gone much longer before, while serving on Shepard's ship or in the military. But the last three weeks had spoiled him; he only had to wear armour while on duty, and when he was at home he could walk around naked if he so chose. He certainly wasn't used to wearing armour while sleeping, at least while he was at home. That was a necessity reserved for active duty, despite what he had told Shepard. But he couldn't think of any other way to appease her human modesty. The articles he had read made it seem as if humans became acutely embarrassed whenever anyone around them appeared in a state of undress, unless they were family or sexual partners—and sometimes even then.

Garrus supposed it made sense as a social construct, built out of the necessity of wearing clothing to protect their fragile human bodies from the elements. Turians had no such delicate modesty. Their skin and metallic carapaces were sufficient to protect them from day-to-day wear and tear, and there was nothing to see anyway—reproductive organs were internal for both sexes. The only reason they wore clothing in modern times was to appease the sensibilities of other galactic races, and the tendency of turians toward wearing armour at all times was a matter of safety, not modesty.

Anyway, right now he wanted to take a shower. He decontaminated his suit and washed his face regularly every morning and evening, making showers a luxury rather than necessity; spacefaring races didn't always have regular access to running water. Peering through the bedroom door to make sure Shepard was still asleep, Garrus moved as quietly as he could toward the bathroom. Once there, he closed the door and activated the soundproof seals, ensuring that the sound of running water wouldn't wake her up.

He glanced in the mirror as he was stripping out of his hardsuit, noticing for the first time that there was a small irregularity in his face paint. He had missed a spot the last time he'd retouched it, under his eye. To think he'd been walking around like that for more than a week! Shepard must have noticed—why hadn't she said anything? A turian female would never fail to catch a slip like that and tease her mate mercilessly about it. It was something—

_Shepard is no turian female,_ part of his mind interrupted dryly. _Nor is she your mate._

Right. Garrus shook his head, amused by his own foolishness. Having Shepard in such close contact to him for so long was starting to mess with his head. He hadn't shared a bed with a female of any race in… quite some time. Small wonder he was getting confused.

A pleasant chill spread through him as soon as he stepped under the cool spray from the showerhead, fully out of armour for the first time in four days. During hot summers back on Palaven, when the temperature sometimes climbed past two hundred galactic standard degrees—enough to slow-cook a human without a climate-control suit—he and Solana had turned on dozens of sprinklers in the Vakarian manor courtyard and spent hours running through the cold water, playing catch-me-if-you-can and kick-the-bottle. Those were some of the fonder memories of his childhood. Smiling to himself, Garrus thought of Shepard and wondered if human children did anything similar.

He kept his shower short, knowing that he didn't want to grow too accustomed to a luxury like this. If his plan worked out, and he ended up rejoining the Normandy in the near future, he needed to be prepared for the spartan conditions of life on a human ship once more. When he was finished, he climbed out of the shower and went to stand naked in front of the mirror, scrutinizing the marred paint under his eye again. It really needed to be fixed before he went anywhere. Unfortunately, he had left his supply of paint in the kitchen.

Donning a pair of loose pants that wouldn't restrict his movement or cause any undue noise, Garrus deactivated the soundproof seal and opened the bathroom door. Unfortunately, this caused the door to hiss softly for a few seconds as air rushed out from the seals. Garrus immediately froze, but the damage was done. Ever a fickle sleeper, Shepard stirred in the bed and turned to face him.

"Garrus?" Her voice sounded different than he had ever heard it before. Childish, almost. It was unnerving.

"Sorry," he said, chagrined. "I didn't mean to wake you up. Just grabbing my paints."

"Your… what? What time is it?"

"Early. Very early. You can go back to sleep."

She yawned. "It's all right. I'm up anyway. What did you say you were doing?"

Garrus indicated the space under his eye. "Fixing this. Don't pretend you didn't notice."

Shepard laughed drowsily. "I didn't think it was that important. Want some help?"

Garrus hesitated. Shepard obviously didn't know the implications of what she was asking. Only bond-mates would offer to help with reapplying colony paint, or parents with small children. But letting Shepard help him wouldn't do any harm. She was a human—and obviously curious—so it shouldn't count. "If you want to."

"This should be fun. I haven't painted anything since art classes in high school." Shepard swung her feet out of bed and stretched. Garrus took the opportunity to go out into the kitchen and fetch his paints from the kitchen cabinet. There were two small pots: one containing the primer that would bind the paint molecules to his skin, and the other containing the dark blue paint itself. When he returned to the bedroom, Shepard's eyes widened at the sight of him. At first he didn't know why; then he realized she had only just noticed his state of partial undress.

"Oh. So you _do_ take off that armour once in a while."

"I was showering." Garrus set the paints down on the floor, aware of Shepard's keen eyes on him and not bothered in the slightest. It was normal for her to be curious about turian physiology; as she had so tactfully informed him in that last drunken message of hers, she had "never seen a naked turian before." At least he had bothered to put pants on, something he wouldn't have done if he was alone. He seemed to remember that human _males_ going around without torso coverings was acceptable, although human females generally couldn't without violating some sort of social taboo.

"That reminds me. Turn around."

Garrus looked at her quizzically, and she sighed.

"The wing nubs. You promised you'd show me."

Oh, right. Obediently, Garrus turned around, exposing his back to Shepard's curious gaze. He wondered if she would be disappointed; his "wing nubs" as she called them were really nothing spectacular, just jutting bones under skin like elongated shoulder blades. The wings themselves had died out long ago, as turians evolved into their new role as deadly ground predators. Fossils and a few ancient cave paintings, as well as vestigial DNA, were the only proof that they had ever existed.

But Shepard seemed readily impressed. "Wow. Can I…?" He felt her cool hands hovering over his back.

"Go ahead."

The sensation of her fingers tracing his shoulder blades was indescribably strange. So many fingers, and so soft—no claws to speak of, not even blunted ones. The skin over the "wing nubs" was rougher than the rest of his back, and he felt her fingertips linger, brushing over the same patches of skin over and over as if fascinated by the sensation.

"You're like an angel."

"A what?"

"Damn. Did I say that out loud?" She laughed. "Humanoids with big white wings. And halos. Fond of singing in heavenly choirs."

Garrus tipped his head to one side, baffled. "These are Earth creatures?"

That only made her laugh harder. "No, they aren't real. Mythical. Like unicorns."

"Ah." He had heard of those; the card that Johannes had forced him to sign for his youngest daughter had been covered with the sparkling white creatures, and Garrus had demanded a full explanation of what they were. "So I resemble one of these creatures?"

"You would, if you had wings. You'd be a pretty odd-looking angel, though. Generally they don't have horns or mandibles."

"Hmm." He snorted, amused by the thought. "What else do these angels do?"

"Protect people. Those are guardian angels, though. I'm not really sure what the other ones do. Never went to church. Um… oh, there are archangels, too. They sit up in heaven doing administrative work, mostly. Unless they're needed down below to fight demons and such."

"I'm going to be honest, Shepard. Human mythology doesn't make a bit of sense."

"I get that a lot." Her fingers lifted away from his shoulders and he turned around to look at her.

"Didn't we agree on a trade?"

"What? Oh. My belly button. Here, let me… oh, well, it's easier if I just take the whole thing off."

Garrus watched her pull the loose blouse she'd been wearing over her head. Underneath was a sheer silver garment supported by two thin straps over her white shoulders. More importantly, it bared her midriff. And there it was, exactly as Johannes had described, though he had refused to show Garrus his: an indentation in the very center of Shepard's stomach, as if someone had tried to poke a hole in her abdomen.

"Incredible. All humans are born with these… holes?"

"Yeah. That's where the umbilical cord attaches. Before they cut it off, anyway. I guess it's really a scar, not something we're born with."

Garrus blinked. "Humans cut off a body part at birth? This is a common practice?"

"It's not really a body part. Just a way of transferring nutrients from the mother to the infant. It has to come off." Shepard wrinkled her nose. "They look pretty gross for the first couple of weeks. The stump has to shrivel up and fall off before the kid can take a bath. I remember from when Liz was a baby."

"Does it go all the way through?" Garrus craned his neck, trying to get a better look at the small of her back. She laughed.

"Of course not. It doesn't go in very far. Here, poke your finger in and see. Just don't scratch me."

"Wait a minute." Garrus scrambled up from the floor and went into his bathroom, where he snatched the nail file from the medicine cabinet and began quickly blunting one of his claws as much as he could. Chellick might give him odd looks when he went back to work, but it wasn't like Garrus was going to tell him what they'd been doing anyway.

"I appreciate it," Shepard said dryly when he returned, middle claw now too blunt to cause any damage. "Don't really want a repeat of yesterday."

"Oh. Sorry about that."

"I wasn't talking about you, I was talking about _Nephim._ You know, the turian who nearly clawed my neck open."

"Right."

"Go ahead. No need to hesitate."

Garrus knew, logically, that he couldn't hurt Shepard by poking around her abdominal crevice. But he still exerted as much caution as possible as he carefully brushed his blunted talon over the skin of her abdomen. It was slightly softer than the skin on her hands, and a few shades whiter. Shepard was right; the hole itself didn't go in very far. It wasn't really a hole, more like an indentation.

She shifted, making a small noise of discomfort, and Garrus snatched his hand back.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Ha! No. I'm just ticklish."

Confused, Garrus cocked his head to one side. "Ticklish?"

"It's… wow, I have no idea how to explain it. When you touch a human in certain places, it… makes them laugh. No idea why, it just does."

Garrus's curiosity was too much for him. Impulsively, he brushed the skin of Shepard's abdomen once more. This time she cringed away from his touch, half-choked laughter bubbling in her throat. The sound was mesmerizing.

"Oh, God. Stop that."

"Is that an order?"

"Maybe. Yes. I don't know—"

"Better make up your mind, Shepard." He dove in once more. She made a high-pitched, panicked noise and scrambled away from him, seeking refuge up on the bed. Fascinated by the discovery of this new weapon, Garrus pursued her, attacking her midsection with light brushes that made her kick ineffectually and shriek with laughter. Amazing—he had found her weakness! Hundreds of geth and a Reaper flagship had not managed to crack Shepard's ironclad composure, but he, Garrus Vakarian, had done it in a matter of seconds.

"Garrus—not _fair!_ Ah, don't—"

She managed to land a kick in the middle of his chest, making the breath huff out from his lungs. Winded, he sank down on the covers next to her. She was breathless with laughter, and her blue eyes were reproachful.

"And here I thought turians weren't supposed to turn on their commanding officers at the first sign of weakness."

"I couldn't help it, Shepard. You made yourself such an easy target."

"Oh, shut up. It isn't my fault. We can't all have metal plates."

"I understand. It must be difficult, being a member of such a poorly designed species."

She grabbed her pillow and hit him in the face, hard. It didn't actually hurt, but it surprised him. At the sight of his shocked expression, she broke up into fits of laughter once more. "Don't—don't you dare call me poorly designed, you patronizing bastard."

"Oh, this means war." Garrus snatched up his own pillow and struck back before she could react. The impact was highly satisfying, and the look of surprise on _her_ face was priceless. "What's the matter? Weren't expecting retaliation?"

"This coming from the species who thought they'd wiped out all human resistance at Shanxi." She reared up on her knees and brought the pillow down hard on his stomach, knocking the breath out of him _again._ "Arrogant alien."

"Impetuous human."

"Swaggering, grey-skinned freak!"

"Soft, pink space pyjak."

"Oh, that's going too far."

Feathers flew everywhere as Shepard's pillow promptly exploded upon contact with Garrus's face. Shocked, he spat feathers and laughed at the sight of her equally startled expression. "Looks like one of us is weaponless."

"Not for long!" She dove at his chest, knocking them both backwards off the bed. Garrus's back hit the floor with a heavy thud and he wheezed out a breath, caught off guard for the third time in as many minutes. Shepard took the opportunity to scramble on top of him, pinning his wrists and staring triumphantly down at the turian trapped beneath her. "Ha. No escape for you, turian."

"Okay, okay. I give. Damn, you humans are relentless."

Of course, he could have easily broken her grip and pinned _her_ instead. That was the advantage of superior size and strength. But the smug look on her face was so utterly amusing that he decided to appease her by giving in.

"Oh, hey. Some more of your paint came off." She touched his cheek with a finger.

"Right. Didn't you say you were going to help me fix it?"

"I think I did."

Garrus coughed. "You're going to do that sitting on my chest, then?"

"Don't tempt me." But she rolled off anyway, sitting back on her haunches as he pulled himself up off the floor with a huff of exertion.

"Have you gotten heavier since last time, or is that just me?"

She raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. "Last time?"

Oops. Right. He hadn't told her about waking up the day before with a pounding headache and a sleeping human on his chest.

"Never mind. I don't know what I'm talking about. Where did I put that paint?"

It took some time, but eventually they settled down and sat on the floor, facing each other with the two jars of paint between them. Usually Garrus would use a mirror for this sort of thing. Pristine face paint was as necessary to any well-bred turian as clean armour and a symmetrical fringe. But he knew Shepard was familiar enough with his markings to know where to put the brush, and he trusted her to show the same precision in this task as she did in every other facet of her work.

"Okay, so there's two spots that need a bit of retouching. What do I start with?"

Garrus indicated the jar of primer. "Put a layer of that on first. Across the whole design. Don't want any more of the paint flaking off."

She followed his directions, opening the jar and coating the small applicator brush with transparent fluid. Up and down, back and forth went her delicate human hand, drawing the brush across the full expanse of his markings. He was used to the sensation of the fine bristles when he was applying paint to himself, but having someone else do it felt different. No one but his mother and Solana had ever painted his face before. It was a huge gesture of trust, to let someone else paint in the markings that symbolized his family and birthplace. No doubt Shepard hadn't the slightest clue of the significance of this, and he wasn't about to enlighten her.

She took longer than he usually did with the same task, but that wasn't a bad thing. It just meant she was taking a great deal of care to do the job properly. Anyway, he didn't think he could get tired of watching her work. She had this habit of pressing her teeth against her bottom lip when she was concentrating on something; it was common among humans—Johannes did it too—but looked different on her. Those bright blue eyes were utterly focused on the task before her, shining with razor-sharp intensity.

"There," she said finally. "It's turning a weird color. Sort of yellow."

"It's binding with my skin, forming a base for the paint to react with. It'll change back again soon enough."

"Blue paint next?" She put the top back on the jar of primer and opened the other one. A sharp, acrid smell filled the air; Garrus was used to it, but Shepard wrinkled her nose. "Ah. I'd forgotten what fresh paint smells like."

"It won't smell like that anymore after it dries."

"I know." The brush for the blue paint was smaller than the one for the primer, narrowing down to a fine pencil point. "Do you want me to just fill in the spots that need fixing, or do the whole thing?"

"Whatever you like. Just make sure you get the spots."

"I'll do the whole thing. It's starting to fade a bit."

Garrus thought about offering to give her one of the stencils he used when he was in a hurry, but he guessed that she would probably refuse it. Shepard never liked to do things the easy way; _if the job was easy_, she was fond of saying, _then you probably did it wrong._ Anyway, he knew she would be careful not to mess up the lines. Shepard would never be careless enough to do something like that.

She inched closer as she began working, until their faces were barely six inches apart. Garrus remembered that human vision was poor compared to turians'; their long-range vision was practically nonexistent, while close-range work was only slightly easier. Truly, their species was physically inferior in so many ways that on the surface, it was easy to see them all as weak—until you met someone like Shepard, one of those individuals who redefined the entire race. Somehow she had managed to reach past those evolutionary limitations and build herself up into something worthy of anyone's respect and admiration. Was it a combination of inherent skill and forced background, or was it just _Shepard_ herself who was responsible for it? If her family had never been killed on Mindoir, if she had never joined the Alliance, if she had never been exposed to element zero…who would she be?

_Who would I be?_

Garrus Vakarian. C-Sec officer. Hating his job, perpetually frustrated, but unable to see any other way to make a difference. Alone.

If he lost her… if she walked out of his life… was that what he would become? Or had she changed him?

_I'll never find out,_ he decided. Even if Shepard refused to let him back on the Normandy, or if she reacted badly to his plan, he would find some way to follow her. She was a force for change in a stagnant galaxy, the only hope against the Reapers—and more importantly, she was the only person whose orders he could ever conceive of following. The only person left who he really respected. Everyone else had let him down—everyone but her.

"Done." It took a while for Garrus to come back to the present. Shepard was examining his face with an air of satisfaction, holding the brush between two of her long, pale fingers. A few drops of blue paint had dripped onto the carpet, but Garrus didn't really care.

"Thanks."

She frowned. "Don't you want a mirror? Make sure I didn't mess it up?"

"No need." He smiled. "I trust you."


	17. Wiser Words

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Wiser Words

* * *

**December 29th, 2183**

_5:02 a.m._

* * *

"So." Shepard examined the paintbrush, holding it up to her eye level. The bristles appeared to be real hair, not synthetic, but she couldn't tell what sort of animal they came from. Did Palaven animals even have hair? The brush was stained blue from repeated use and the wooden handle was worn smooth. "What happens if I get this paint on _my_ skin? Is it toxic?"

Garrus shook his head. He was leaning against the side of the bed, watching her examine the brush while he waited for the fresh paint on his face to dry. Shepard had done her best to stay within the lines, and she thought she'd done a pretty good job. Of course, she had no idea whether her handiwork would hold up under turian scrutiny. The paint looked pretty much the same as it did when Garrus applied it himself, but maybe her eyes just weren't good enough to tell the difference.

"It's not toxic, no. The primer probably won't work on your skin, though."

Experimentally, Shepard painted a thin line of blue on her wrist and held it up to the light, admiring the slick dark gleam against her pale skin. "It looks different on me."

"Hmm." He took the brush from her hand and positioned it over her face. "Close your eyes."

She obeyed and felt him paint a thick stroke over the bridge of her nose. Expecting him to paint more, she remained still, but he drew the brush back and made an approving sound. "Very nice."

"What is?"

"You're so pale. It's like painting on paper."

She smiled. "I got my face painted once when I was a kid. Like a tiger."

He cocked his head to one side. "Tiger?"

"Here." She reached for the button to activate his omni-tool, and both of their faces lit up with the orange glow. _Tiger,_ she typed. The first picture that popped up was an old 21st century 2D, full-color photograph.

Garrus stared at the photograph. He looked fascinated. "Those markings are natural? They aren't painted on?"

"Nope. And get this—each tiger is different. None of the markings are the same."

"You mean they're like turians? Different markings for different birthplaces and families?"

Shepard laughed. "No. It's just random." She scrolled through the next couple of pictures, until one jumped out at her. "Hey! Those markings look sort of like yours."

"Slightly," he said, amused. "You had these markings painted on your face? I'm having trouble imaging what that would look like."

"I'll take you to a country fair sometime and you can see." Shepard eyed him appraisingly. "I never saw it before, but turians and tigers are kind of similar. The markings… how fast you are… the growling, the purring…"

"I don't purr." Garrus snorted.

"Call it what you want." Shepard stood up and walked over to the huge bedroom window. Beneath her lay the expanse of the Wards—shuttles zipping back and forth, thousands of lit windows, buildings soaring quite literally to the stars. "I've never really had a chance to _look around_ this place before. It's beautiful."

She felt his warmth and heard his footsteps behind her, but she didn't turn around. "It certainly looks that way from up here."

"I guess this is all the Council sees when they look at the Citadel. Just tall buildings and pretty lights. No poverty, no gangs, no slavery." Shepard sighed. "I shouldn't judge them so harshly."

"It's their job to know everything, and to take care of everyone on the station. If you think they've failed, judge them as harshly as you like."

"If I judged everyone according to their failures, I'm not sure there would be anyone left to respect."

"I can think of one."

"Don't, Garrus." She rested her hands against the window; the glass was cool against her palms. Garrus kept his apartment fairly warm, probably to replicate the environment he had grown up in; enjoying the cool sensation, Shepard leaned her forehead against the glass as well. "If you think I've never failed, you're dead wrong. Maybe I make fewer mistakes than most people, but that just means the mistakes are bigger."

"I've never seen you make a mistake."

"Alliance promotional vids tend to gloss over the stickier parts of my career." Shepard laughed, knowing she sounded bitter. "And our definitions of 'mistake' are slightly different anyhow."

She felt rather than saw his confusion; it was a palpable presence in the space between them. "I define a mistake as something that jeopardizes the mission. Isn't that the commonly accepted definition among military personnel?"

"There's something my tactics instructor in N5 training once told me that I never forgot. He pulled me over after a session. We had just finished an assault simulation, working in small groups to penetrate a fortified base. He pulled me over and said, _Shepard, this is your problem. You have no concept of 'acceptable losses.'"_ She smiled, remembering. "Numbers. I was decent at math. But 'acceptable losses' for me was always zero."

"I can see how that might be problematic."

"Yes. In war, losses are never zero. The margin of failure is much wider. You have to do the math—if you lose fifty men but gain a strategic advantage, is that success or failure? My instructors used to hand me a calculator before each mission. Said I needed a little 'extra help.' A joke. A sick joke, but still a joke." Shepard shook her head. "I shouldn't be talking about this. We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves."

"When are you going to talk about it, if not now?"

"I don't know. I went through psych sessions like everyone else after my first few levels of Special Forces training. I guess they thought a few weeks of counseling would hold us for the rest of our careers. If we even lived that long."

"There isn't a psychologist on the Normandy."

"No. There have been, on the bigger warships I've served on. But I'm glad the Normandy doesn't have one. Dr. Chakwas knows I like to be left alone; she doesn't pry. The other doctors… they had to learn the hard way."

"Have I been prying?"

She turned around and gave him a reassuring smile. "No. Well, maybe a little. But I don't mind. Doctors, psychologists… they don't really get it. They haven't been there. You have—you've been with me the entire time."

"And I'll be there until it's over."

"Sometimes that's the only thing that keeps me going."

* * *

**December 29th, 2183**

_7:49 a.m._

* * *

They had breakfast at a café on the Presidium, near the human embassies. During the hunt for Saren, Shepard had visited this place to pick up a quick bagel or sandwich on her way to and from meetings with Anderson, Udina, or the Council. The fallout from Sovereign's attack had changed the layout of the area: construction barriers blocked off portions of walkways and entire buildings; the lake had been partially drained to remove debris from the water; businesses had been demolished entirely and replaced by temporary stands in front of the original locations. The cheerful, bustling café Shepard remembered was now a hovercart manned by a tired-looking asari whom Shepard didn't recognize.

"At least the food's still good," Shepard said after she and Garrus had carried their food over to the lake's edge to sit in the grass. She had ordered a chicken-and-tomato omelet, toast, a bagel, and a bowl of oatmeal. Garrus's single plate of chopped meat—standard turian fare—looked paltry in comparison, but Shepard was too used to disparities in meal size between her and other soldiers to feel self-conscious now.

He wasn't paying attention to her. "Is that Anderson?"

Shepard followed his gaze. Across the lake was a small grouping of restaurants that had survived the blast; they got most of the business now in this part of the Presidium. There were tables right up to the edge of the water; at one of these sat a lone figure in a white suit. Shepard watched for a few moments; the man finally turned his face in their direction and she recognized him. "Huh. It is."

"He doesn't look too busy."

Anderson wasn't touching his food. He was just sitting at the table, looking around at the lake and bridges and people of all races walking through the Presidium. Shepard was surprised by his inactivity; she had never even seen any of the other Councilors outside their tower, let alone relaxing lakeside. Presumably they were even busier now than usual, in the aftermath of the destruction wreaked upon the station by Sovereign and the geth.

Shepard stood up and waved her hands, trying to get Anderson's attention. It took some time; she wasn't about to holler over the lake at him like a child. Eventually he looked over and saw her. He raised one hand in acknowledgment and stood up from his seat.

"Is he coming over here?" asked Garrus.

"I think so."

"Let's start walking. Meet him halfway."

As Anderson drew nearer, Shepard noticed the weary drag of his feet and the deep circles under his eyes. She had certainly done her old friend no favors by appointing him Councilor. But that hadn't been her intention in the first place; she had made the best choice she could for all of humanity. In the short time that she had personally known Udina, she had judged him grasping and power-hungry, incapable of the diplomatic restraint that humanity's highest galactic representative needed. Anderson was clearly the better option—for now, at least, until a more suitable candidate revealed themselves and allowed the aging soldier to step down.

"Commander. It's good to see you."

They shook hands, a brief but powerful clasp born of familiarity. "Please, Anderson. You know it's just Shepard to you."

"We might not have the luxury of being so casual much longer. The galaxy is going to need a commander and a councilor, not just Shepard and Anderson." He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Pleasure to meet again, Officer."

"Likewise." Garrus hesitated only a brief moment before offering his hand for a handshake, reflecting his experience with humans and their greeting rituals. That must have come from C-Sec—formality wasn't terribly widespread on Shepard's ship.

"Trouble, I take it?" Shepard asked. "You look exhausted."

"Nothing but the trivial task of rebuilding an entire space station from rubble. You look… better rested than usual."

Shepard smiled. "I'm on shore leave. Guess the brass thought I deserved some."

Anderson shook his head. "What you really deserved after that mess was a promotion. Staff Commander at the very least. Major at a stretch—and not a big one, at that. But Hackett made the call that in lieu of your Spectre designation, a promotion wasn't necessary."

"I know, sir. Trust me, I'm not asking for a promotion. I like it right where I am. Less paperwork."

"Wiser words were never spoken, Shepard. I see I've interrupted your meal. Let's sit down."

* * *

**December 29th, 2183**

_8:20 a.m._

* * *

It had been a long three weeks for Anderson. Of course, he had known all along that the Council was serious business. It was mounds of paperwork and burning the midnight oil every night, constant video conferences and the soul-crushing, suffocating weight of trillions of lives on your shoulders. But, in the event that humanity _did_ gain a seat on the Council in his lifetime, he had always expected Udina to fill it. It made more sense. Udina was a politician; Anderson was a soldier. He did humanity's dirty work; he didn't call the big shots. He and Shepard were alike in that way.

Then everything had changed. Shepard had become the hero he had always known she would be, and suddenly her word carried more weight, symbolically at the very least, than either Anderson's or Udina's ever had. He was proud of her, of course. Some days, it was hard to believe that the red-eyed, weeping, blood-covered teenager his ground squad had picked up all those years ago had grown into a woman as strong and fearless as Shepard. He was nothing but proud of her. At the same time, though, when she had recommended _him_ as humanity's representative on the Council… Anderson had seriously doubted her sanity.

It was no secret that Shepard didn't get along with Udina. To be honest, Udina didn't get along with _anybody._ But Shepard was as disciplined as any Alliance officer; she knew how to suck it up and carry out orders without backtalk or grumbling. And when it came to weighty decisions, Anderson _knew_ Shepard, and he knew that she would make the choice she believed to be right regardless of personal feelings. Which meant that she had put him on the Council because she believed he was the better choice.

He hadn't been expecting to see her here now. But when he thought about it, the cold logic made a sad kind of sense. Where else would she go? All her crew had family to see, wives and husbands to visit, kids to hold, parents to console. All Shepard had was empty space.

"How is reconstruction going?" Shepard asked as the three of them took seats at the water's edge. Anderson was wearing rather expensive shoes—his wardrobe had been upgraded somewhat after his promotion to the Council—so he kept his legs drawn up, but Shepard kicked off her shoes and stuck her feet straight in the water. After a few moments' hesitation, Vakarian did the same. Interesting.

"Slowly. The Keepers do twice the work we do in half the time. The only problem is that there's no way to coordinate our efforts with them; we keep having to work around their improvements, and they keep taking down ours and replacing them."

"Garrus mentioned something like that."

The turian nodded. He was sitting on Shepard's other side, feet dangling in the water. The sight was oddly humorous; Anderson didn't think he'd ever seen a turian looking so relaxed before. "My sector has been very active in reconstruction."

"I wish I could say the same," Anderson said regretfully. "A bit of grunt work would be a breath of fresh air after all of the paperwork I've been doing."

Shepard smiled. "Like I said, I'm glad I wasn't promoted. Grunt work is my specialty." Her eyes lit up. "Actually, I don't know if you heard, but Garrus and I shut down a slave ring yesterday…"

Anderson raised an eyebrow. "A slave ring? Where?"

"Right here on the Citadel. There was a club in the Wards…" She leaned forward, looked at him oddly. "You really didn't hear? The asari councilor knew… I thought the rest of the Council would, too. I mean, slavery on the Citadel? Big deal."

"I'll look into it," Anderson assured her. To be honest, the revelation did not surprise him. He had spent enough time on the Citadel to know that the perfect façade the station presented to the rest of the galaxy, a mask of prosperity and happiness, was far from the truth. There was just as much crime on the Citadel as there was on any other station. But he knew that Shepard had grown up in the colonies and had probably heard stories all through her childhood of what a wonderful place the Citadel was, how wealthy, how safe. The heart of galactic civilization, the eye of the storm.

Shepard didn't look satisfied, but she leaned back. "I'm glad to hear it. You know how I feel about slavery."

"I do." _A ragged, voiceless girl, her father's pistol clenched in both hands, grimy face gleaming with translucent tear tracks. Watching out the porthole as Mindoir dwindled into the darkness of space, leaving behind everyone she had ever known—dead or worse. _"It's a difficult crime to combat, Shepard. Slavery is legal on many worlds and stations, especially those under corporate jurisdiction. Most slavers are surrounded by so much legal armor that it's nigh on impossible to arrest them."

"Legal armor," snorted Garrus. "So that's what it's called."

"Now I see why you're so frustrated all the time," Shepard muttered back.

"It's _infuriating._ You arrest someone, haul him in for questioning, and then his lawyer shows up and shoves a rulebook in your face. Bye-bye suspect."

"I still think Spectres have too much power. But when it comes to slavers…"

Garrus chuckled. "_'Let's burn this place to the ground?'"_

Shepard punched him in the arm, but she was smirking. "Hey. I restrained myself."

Anderson smiled, amused by the dynamic between the two. Their back-and-forth exchange was smooth, casual, almost rehearsed—it reflected their mutual familiarity. And it reminded him of better times, with comrades he trusted and nothing to do but follow orders. Shepard had the right idea about not wanting a promotion.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, Shepard. I can't take much more time away from my duties, unfortunately."

"You need a vacation," observed Shepard as Anderson climbed creakily to his feet, tired muscles groaning with the effort. He had been running on stims for the better part of a week, and the physical stress was catching up with him.

"Councilors don't get vacations."

"Maybe I should have put Udina on the Council instead. Wouldn't mind seeing him taken down a few pegs."

"Be respectful, Shepard." Anderson tried to sound disapproving, but it didn't come out right. Perhaps he had enjoyed punching Udina in the face during the hijacking of the Normandy a little _too_ much. As things stood, he wouldn't particularly mind doing it again.

"Only in a uniform, sir." Shepard came easily to her feet with a youthful grace that Anderson envied. Garrus mirrored her after only a half second's hesitation. Anderson shook hands with both of them, wished Shepard luck on her next assignment, and set off for the Citadel Tower feeling a little more lighthearted than he had before his lunch hour.

Sometimes it was easy to lose hope, with the Reapers looming on the edges of the galaxy and the rest of the Council refusing to admit the truth. But Shepard was the kind of woman who made you think that maybe everything would be all right. That she could see the things she had, spend all that time in the trenches, and still smile at Garrus like that… It was nothing short of amazing.


	18. Stranger Danger

**Title**: The Heart Asks for Pleasure First

**Summary**: A month after taking down Saren, Shepard spends Christmas shore leave with her favourite turian C-Sec officer on the Citadel. Movies are watched, gifts are exchanged, and two war heroes celebrate their unlikely friendship.

**Rating**: T

**Pairing**: Garrus/Shepard friendship, flirting, mentions of Kaidan/Shepard

**Spoilers**: All of ME1

**Timeline**: post-ME1, pre-ME2

* * *

**A/N: So, I'm going to be really busy with finals for the next couple of weeks, so I may not update as regularly as usual. Just FYI. In other news, I really, really hate these stupid ffnet login codes! I can barely read the dang things. Have to keep pressing the button for "new code" until I get one that's marginally legible.**

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

Stranger Danger

* * *

**December 29th, 2183**

_9:46 a.m._

* * *

"I thought about buzzing Anderson for a cup of tea, but I thought he might be too busy," Shepard said, leaning back on the sofa. Garrus was fiddling with his omni-tool and the 360 television display, trying to fine-tune the resolution. He'd already amped it up far past industry standards, but it never hurt to hack in a few more upgrades. "So I'm glad we ran into him. Haven't really had a chance to talk in a while."

"How long have you two known each other?"

"Oh, forever. Well, since Mindoir, anyway. His team was the first to get there. If it hadn't been for Anderson, I probably would have been shipped to an orphanage somewhere. He pulled some strings to get me clearance to enlist."

Garrus looked over his shoulder, puzzled. "Clearance? You weren't eligible?"

"Too young. Minimum age for Alliance enlistment is seventeen. Eighteen for space tours." Shepard made a face and pressed her hand to her temple.

"Something wrong?"

"Headache. I feel a little woozy, too. Maybe it's a cold."

Garrus chuckled. "Excellent. You can explain the mechanism of sneezing again."

"I think I'll get some water." Shepard stood up and braced her hand against the arm of the sofa for support. Now that Garrus was paying attention, she did look a little paler than usual. There was something odd about the way she moved—almost swaying, tipsy-approaching-drunk, shoulders curved inward.

"Sit down," he said, concerned now. "I'll get it."

"I think I can make it to the kitchen," she said acidly.

Garrus saw her fall before it actually happened—it was instinct, the sight of one foot moving out of sync with the other and a waver in the area around her knees that triggered some protective response in his brain. "Wait," he bit out, launching himself across the few intervening steps to hook one arm under her shoulder. She made a muffled sound of protest, but her weakness was evident in the way that she clung to him, enough of a weight-drag on his arm to surprise him and nearly send them both off balance. He recovered in time and lowered her back onto the couch. Now he was _really_ worried.

"Dizzy," she mumbled, chin tipping to her chest.

"Shepard," Garrus said, subharmonics harsh with distress. Her eyes were drifting shut, the muscles in her jaw going slack. "Shepard, stay awake. Look at me." A brief flicker beneath her half-closed eyelids, a gleam of blue. Her fingers twitched and a spark jumped to Garrus's arm, shocking him with a brief release of static energy. "Did you drink anything? Leave any food unattended?"

Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Garrus felt a cool calm descend over him and his mind detached from his instincts, a process drilled into him by years in the military. He leaned closer and managed to catch a single word before her eyes closed. "_Kit."_

Kit. Of course. The first-aid kit that every soldier took with them wherever they went, complete with foreign substance analyzer and a variety of antivenin boosters. It took seemingly no time at all for Garrus to enter the bedroom and locate Shepard's pack, sitting on the floor next to the window. The neon orange metal box inside was designed to be instantly recognizable; he snatched it up and carried the whole thing back to the couch. First, the stabilizer—he plucked the pre-filled syringe from its wrapping and took only a moment to recall the locations of major human arteries before injecting the solution into Shepard's neck. The response was gratifying; Shepard made a choking sound but her breathing quickly eased, and in Garrus's visor he saw her pulse return to a normal rate.

Now for the analyzer. Garrus positioned the black pad over Shepard's neck and waited. The true gravity of the situation hit him like a charging krogan—_Shepard, Shepard's unconscious, don't know what's wrong, she might die—_but he wrestled it to the ground, locked it away in the back of his mind to deal with later. _Beep._ The analyzer was finished. "_Unknown foreign substance detected."_

Garrus stared at it. "Unknown?" he growled. "What do you mean, unknown?"

The analyzer made no reply. It was a simple machine, not a VI like the ones Garrus was used to arguing with. Snarling in frustration, he opened up his omni-tool. "Get me the closest med clinic."

"_Nearest medical facility to your location found: Michel Clinic, approximately six minutes away by private shuttle."_

"Private shuttle. Downstairs. Now!"

"_Command received. Processing… Done. The shuttle will arrive in approximately two minutes and forty-seven seconds."_

Garrus closed his omni-tool, filled his pockets with stabilizer syringes, and hooked his arms under Shepard's limp body, lifting her onto his shoulders. He had been trained to carry much heavier weights than one human female, so the burden posed no trouble. "Open the front door," he barked at no one in particular. Air hissed from the locking seals as his front door swung open.

"Hold on," he told Shepard, knowing that she couldn't hear him, but compelled to say it nonetheless. "Just hold on."

* * *

**December 29th, 2183**

_12:39 p.m._

* * *

Some time later, Shepard clawed her way back from the great, reaching blackness with a considerable effort and managed to open her eyes. She saw bright white light, but her vision refused to focus—though she blinked several times, everything remained blurry. The light hurt her eyes, so she closed them again and listened. Somewhere nearby, she could hear a heavily accented female voice speaking rapidly; the sound was muffled at first, but as she put more effort into focusing on the sound, she could decipher the words.

"…never _see_ you anymore. Before you left the Citadel, you used to stop by on your patrol route all the time. I kept waiting for you to visit when I heard you were back…"

A short, embarrassed-sounding cough, and a familiar flanging voice. Garrus. "They've, uh, changed my patrol route. Haven't had the chance to come by."

"Hmph. Well, I hope you've been keeping yourself safe. The things I heard on the news… Did you really kill a Spectre? How dangerous that must have been!"

"It was mostly Shepard." The harmonic undertones of his voice shifted, though Shepard could not pinpoint the change or what it meant. "What drug did you say they gave her again?"

"Kardosil. A delayed-action poison. It would have been administered one to two hours before she showed any effects. If you hadn't injected that stabilizer, things might have gone badly for her. Imagine! Commander Shepard, poisoned on the Citadel, after the two of you saved us all from the geth!"

"But she'll be all right?"

"Yes. I'll need to run some tests when she wakes up, keep her here for a few hours. That won't be for some time. Why don't we have a drink…?"

Deciding that she had heard enough, Shepard made an effort to open her eyes again. Bright light stabbed in like a blade, making her wince. Keeping her eyelids open just a crack, she moved one arm, attempting to discern her surroundings by touch. Thin sheets, a pillow wrapped in sterile plastic—a hospital bed. The place smelled of antiseptic.

"Shepard! She's waking up."

Footsteps approached—two sets, one considerably lighter than the other. "Turn off the light," Shepard mumbled, gratified when the words came out reasonably clear.

"What did she say?" asked the female voice.

"Turn off the light," translated Garrus.

"Oh. That would be the effects of the Kardosil. Increased pupil dilation—photosensitivity. It's amazing that she's woken up this quickly. I expected another two hours at least—"

"The _light,_" repeated Shepard in a low growl.

"Here, I'll get them," sighed Garrus.

The lights flickered off and Shepard was plunged into cool, blessed darkness. "Thanks," she breathed, opening her eyes. She could see Garrus's distinctive turian silhouette outlined against dim lights from the hallway, but not much else. He moved closer to the bed, finding her hand easily in the dark—superior turian senses—and giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

"Feeling better?"

"Just peachy."

He tipped his head to one side, letting go of her fingers. "Peaches? Fruit?"

"Peachy. Means good. Great."

"Ah."

"Where are we?"

"Dr. Michel's clinic. It was close."

"Someone gave you Kardosil," the accented female voice said. Shepard recognized its owner now as she moved up to stand beside Garrus: Chloe Michel, the doctor they had rescued from Fist's men on Shepard's very first day on the Citadel. The doctor was wearing a red-and-white lab suit close-fitting enough to border on scandalous, until Shepard remembered that skintight professional outfits were the height of civilian fashion these days. "It's a new and very dangerous drug. An overdose is usually enough to kill most people in hours."

"I have implants. Standard Alliance issue." All legitimate drugs approved for medical use in Council space contained chemical flags at the molecular level and were able to bypass Shepard's drug-resistance implant systems, but drugs that weren't certified were either slowed down or counteracted entirely. It had saved her life more than once. "Must be pretty dangerous if it got past those."

"The USA didn't work either," put in Garrus. Shepard glanced at him, easily recognizing the acronym—_unknown substance analyzer._ "It recognized that there was something there, but it didn't know what it was. So it hasn't been added to the database. Where did _you_ hear about it, Dr. Michel?"

"I…" Hesitation fluttered across the doctor's face. "A… colleague mentioned it."

There was a pregnant silence. "Right," Shepard said at last. "Can I have some water?"

"Oh, of course." Dr. Michel fled the room, leaving the door ajar.

Garrus and Shepard exchanged looks full of meaning. Peeling back the sheets, Shepard attempted to sit up—she had always hated lying prone in front of people—but Garrus put his hand on her shoulder. The pressure was light, and she could easily have broken it if she wanted to, but the gesture was enough to stop her. "Wait. Don't get up. You shouldn't even be awake yet."

"Is that an order?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Insubordination? I would never dream of it."

"Good answer." She reached back and shifted her pillow so she could sit in a sort of semi-upright position; Garrus looked mollified and removed his hand. He had been getting a little touchy-feely lately, if she wasn't overestimating things—she had read somewhere that turians were like that with people they cared about. Something to do with leaving their scent on things they didn't want to lose, to establish a kind of connection. Shepard didn't pretend to understand the whole concept—a culture based on a superior sense of smell, with all the attached gestures and rituals, was utterly alien to humans—but it made her feel… good. Appreciated.

"Before she comes back," Garrus said in a low voice, leaning down a little so she could hear him. "I thought I saw some suspicion there."

"She's not telling the whole story," Shepard muttered back. "That's all I can pick up. You know her better than I do."

He looked amused. "Not really. I used to stop by here every now and then to get something to drink on my patrols. Our conversations mainly consisted of her telling me about the latest people who had tried to threaten or blackmail her."

"So she does have a habit of getting into dangerous situations, then? That wasn't just the one time?"

"Two times. And yes. I'm afraid our Dr. Michel does not have a very sophisticated threat detection system."

"Is that turian for 'stranger danger?'" Shepard chuckled. "Don't answer that."

"I wasn't going to. Anyway, I highly doubt that she is directly connected to the poisoner. But she knows more than she's letting on. Perhaps she treated a case of Kardosil poisoning recently. If the drug is so new, how else would she have known exactly what it was when I brought you in?"

"Good point. But how did it even get into my system?"

"Dr. Michel said the administration must have occurred one to two hours before you started showing symptoms. What have you eaten and drunk since then?"

"Just breakfast at that Presidium café. You don't think…?"

Garrus sighed. "It's possible. There are a lot of people who would profit from your death. Slavers, mercenaries, drug dealers… It isn't inconceivable that they might have bought out a struggling stall owner."

"Then we need to go back. As soon as possible."

"Don't expect to find anything. Whoever the poisoner was must have known that a dead Spectre would attract attention. That café would be the first place investigated. Ninety-nine percent chance that they've already flown the coop."

"But we still—" Shepard fell silent as she heard footsteps in the hallway. Dr. Michel entered the room, carrying a glass of water.

"It's so dark in here! Have your eyes adjusted yet, Commander?"

"Can't tell. Try turning the light on."

The sudden surge of light made Shepard wince, but she was relieved to find her eyes adjusting. Soon she could make out Garrus's face in detail, as well as the scratches in the windowpane on the other side of the room and the name on the tag that Dr. Michel wore on her lapel. She had hated not being able to see properly; it was a huge, crippling disability for a soldier, especially a human.

"Ah, much better." Dr. Michel came toward the bed and handed Shepard the cup. The water tasted like nirvana; she felt like her throat had been rubbed dry with sandpaper. She must have sounded like a chain smoker beforehand, though she hadn't noticed.

"Dr. Michel, we have a few questions for you," Garrus said. Straight to the point. It made Shepard smile.

The doctor didn't smile. Her eyes narrowed, brows knitting together in anxiety. Shepard was familiar with fear, and Michel was showing all the signs. "Questions? What kind of questions?"

"There's no point in beating around the bush," Shepard said. They'd get answers quicker if they tag-teamed it. Garrus glanced at her with puzzled eyes. Oh—he was probably confused by "beating around the bush." She would have to explain it later. "Someone just tried to kill me. I can assure you that there will be a full investigation into this matter. C-Sec may be involved, but it's more likely that I will be encouraged to make… personal inquiries. As a Spectre."

Shepard had never liked threatening people. Especially civilians. But sometimes a thinly veiled threat was the quickest and easiest way to get a point across. Every second that ticked away was another second for the poisoner to get away. She still thought their best lead was back at the café, but if Michel had valuable information, they had to get that first.

Dr. Michel sighed. To her credit, she didn't look like she was on the verge of panicking. All that experience with threats and blackmail must be coming in handy. Brushing a lock of dark red hair back from her face with a perfectly manicured hand, the doctor looked at Garrus as she spoke, avoiding Shepard's gaze. "I didn't lie. It _was_ a colleague who told me about the Kardosil. Perhaps not the kind of colleague I implied him to be."

"Everyone has a few vices," Garrus said dryly, shooting Shepard a look that plainly said _Go figure._ "Tell me about him."

"I won't tell you his name." Forestalling their protests, Dr. Michel held up her hands, though Shepard noticed that she was still focusing entirely on Garrus. Perhaps she thought it would be easier to appeal to him, since they seemed to know each other. If so, she had gravely underestimated Garrus. Shepard knew for a fact that he had never allowed personal affairs to get in the way of a mission. "He's not a bad man. I've known him for years. He helps me stay on top of what's happening in the Wards. New drugs, new diseases, where people are selling the cheapest supplies. In exchange, I give him and his… friends free medical service and supplies, whenever they need it. I wouldn't have lasted six months alone in this clinic without his help."

"With the amount of trouble you get yourself into, I'm not surprised," sighed Garrus. "Go on."

"Last week, he brought me a sample of this new drug. Kardosil, he called it. Some of his sellers had died in the last few days, and the autopsies had turned up traces of the poison in their systems. He said that there was no reasonable connection, that it looked like someone had just been testing the drug and its effects. I put it through the scanner and developed an antidote."

"And if you hadn't…" Garrus closed his eyes.

"I'd be dead," finished Shepard. "Lucky. Too lucky."

She glanced at Garrus. His eyes were still closed; he seemed to be turning something over in his head. Perhaps it had really hit him just how close a call this had been. Shepard hadn't quite gotten there yet—she was still in the righteous anger phase, not even close to shock or denial. Dying of poison? How positively _archaic._ And the fact that she was on shore leave just made it worse, almost comical. Commander Shepard, Hero of the Citadel—much as she disliked the title—officially deceased while reclining on a couch and watching a turian adjust the settings on the telly. What a sad way to go.

"You need to tell us who your contact is," Garrus said in a low voice. Shepard had never quite picked up the knack of interpreting turian subharmonics, but his sounded more jagged than usual. "I could have you jailed for withholding evidence."

Dr. Michel paled. "Garrus—you wouldn't!"

"I'm an officer of the law. A crime has been committed, and it's my responsibility to examine all possible leads." Now he just sounded tired, like he was quoting from a rule book. "If your friend is innocent, he won't be harmed. But if he is responsible, you're sheltering an attempted murderer."

"Garrus, that doesn't make sense," Shepard cut in. "If he was planning to use the poison to kill someone, why would he turn over a sample to Dr. Michel?"

Dr. Michel seized on the point, the color visibly returning to her face. "Just so! I can contact him. Ask him what else he knows. He will cooperate, I swear. Just let me talk to him."

Shepard hesitated. She exchanged a look with Garrus and knew they were both on the same wavelength. If Dr. Michel tipped off her contact and he _did_ turn out to be the murderer, then he would have the perfect opportunity to escape. "Why don't we all talk to him?"

Dr. Michel shook her head. "No, no. That won't work. You see, he is undocumented. He has no legal right to live on the Citadel. His pass expired years ago. If C-Sec finds him, he will be evicted. He has nowhere to go. People will kill him if he leaves. And my clinic… I'll have to close down. I cannot stay open without his help."

"Undocumented," muttered Garrus. "This keeps getting better and better."

"He will cut the connection if I'm not alone," Dr. Michel continued to plead. "Please, I promise he will not run. He will not keep anything from me."

Under ideal circumstances, Shepard would have taken a few minutes to discuss the problem with Garrus. As a C-Sec officer, his insights could be invaluable. But her comfortable day of shore leave had just changed into a timed manhunt, and her soldiering instincts told her that she couldn't spare the delay. She would have to depend on subtle, nonverbal cues from her squad of one, just as she did on the battlefield. A quick, minimalist nod from Garrus told her that he would follow her lead.

"Make the call," she said. "We'll wait here until you're done."


End file.
